Esther Chilton

Before the British Reader’s Digest closed, I used to write funny true-life anecdotes for them. There were so many of them! Here’s one:

I was having a cup of tea at a friend’s house one morning when my phone went. It was my five-year-old daughter’s school. She wasn’t feeling very well.

The roads were busy, so I was late picking her up, and apologised. 

“Don’t worry, Mummy,” my daughter said, “I told them that sometimes you drive, sometimes you walk and sometimes you’re drunk.”

I could hardly breathe. I liked a glass of wine at the weekend, but that was it.

“Drunk?” I blurted out.

“Yes, Mummy. At your friend’s. You’re always saying you get drunk on too many cups of tea.”

I want to know if it’s just me or if you, too, have lots of funny moments to share. So your prompt this week is

FUNNY MOMENTS

I always enjoy seeing what you come up with if the prompt gives you inspiration, but there’s no obligation to share your writing. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt POST.

Teleportingweena:

Esther suggests we write about the word post, as in things we send in the mailbox, or that we receive, and things like that. Or I was also thinking about a post, like a wooden fence post or something?

I have so many true stories about this word, either way, that it would be way too long a post to post here. So funny, that we’ll be posting a post about posts!

I’ve been posting (sending mail) and receiving posts in the mailbox for many years. For now I’ll just tell one little story that happened.

What is the strangest thing I’ve ever mailed (posted)? It was an empty (except for a little bit) peanut butter jar, and I mailed it to a dog … my grand-dog, that belonged to my daughter. His name was Maynard Wayne, and he loved licking the last of the peanut butter from a jar. So I mailed him one! My daughter let me know he sure enjoyed receiving his package in the post (mailbox).  

Maynard Wayne was a large, tan and white Husky/Labrador. I have lots of pictures and stories of him. We miss him.

Kim Smyth:

I think you’re right, we don’t get personal stuff in the mail anymore. I miss the days of getting letters detailing whats been going on from cousins, grandparents, and friends. We just don’t do it anymore in this day of social media. No personal connection anymore. I hate it, but then again, postage seems to get more and more expensive every year too!

Christine Mallaband-Brown:

A relative lives abroad with her partner. I need to remember to send a birthday card and an anniversary card together as the occasions are within a day of each other. Also I’m posting them early (it’s a month away), because it took three weeks to get her Christmas card delivered to her. I also won’t post her presents as she had to pay import tax on the one I sent at Christmas, which cost her more than the price of my gift! The reason for the late delivery of the card ? Her postman waits until he’s got enough letters together before he delivers them!

Lisa A Paul:

In the world I grew up in, everything was handwritten or typed on a typewriter. I took a typing class in high school and was the fastest typist in my class, 85 words per minute. But regular people wouldn’t have a typewriter at home, so we wrote out notes, stories, homework, shopping lists, checks for bills and letters by hand.

I was never very interested in letters that came in the mail until I was about 15 years old. The church that I attended would send high school students to a church camp in Southern Indiana. This camp was a week long in the summer, and all the high school aged young people in all of southern Indiana that attended the same denomination as my church would gather at this camp. The kids would stay in dormitories, girls in one set of dormitories and boys in another set of dormitories. There were a lot of activities and games, three hearty meals a day in a big cafeteria, and church at least twice a day. We would attend Bible classes during the day, too. But in the evenings, the youth could wander around, visit and laugh, buy treats from the snack bar, and sometimes sneak off for a couple of moments alone in the darkness. During the evenings, everyone was busy trying to find a boyfriend or a girlfriend from among the many exciting new boys and girls from different places.

One of my best friends had a boyfriend from the summer before that came back to camp. And her boyfriend had brought his best friend with him. I immediately had a crush on this friend. His name was Henry and he lived in Shelbyville. He was very tall, had wavy blonde hair, dark blue eyes and crooked teeth. He was a sweet boy. And before the week was over, he took me under a tree and kissed me in the darkness. It was very innocent, but very exciting. When camp was done, we all went our different ways. But Henry and I promised we would write to each other.

There was a song that had been popular in 1972, a year or so earlier, by Bobbie Vinton called “Sealed With a Kiss.” The lyrics were perfect for star-crossed lovers separated after a summer of love.

Here’s the song, if you don’t know it:

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=gv4Ofrc_G04&si=poGXEtPnxTJ_m59m

So I wrote a letter to Henry, sealed it in an envelope, put on my cherry lip gloss and planted a pink kiss print right on the seal. I posted it and anxiously waited for his reply.

After what seemed like forever, I finally received a letter from Henry. I don’t remember what it said, just that it was a very friendly letter, that it didn’t reveal much about his life, and that he had spidery handwriting. But, he signed the letter “Love, Henry” so I was thrilled. We promised that we would both go to camp the following summer and see each other again. I did go to camp the next year, but Henry did not come and I never saw him again. But I can still remember how my heart raced when I received his letters, with his signature at the bottom, the word “love” by his name.

My Mind Mappings:

Okay, yes, I admit it. It’s called the “post office,” and the post offices are part of the United States Postal Service.

But if want to send a physical letter or a box or something and I go to the post office, I go there to mail a letter or a box, not to post it.

Or if I am not going to the post office, I can simply find one of the ubiquitous blue mailboxes that dot the American urban and suburban landscape. Mailboxes not postboxes!

When my mail is delivered to my house each day by the mailman (not the postman), I walk to my mailbox at the end of my driveway to retrieve it, not to my postbox.

To me, the word “post” applies to sending things into cyberspace, like a blog post in response to a writing prompt. Or I can post a comment on a blog post that someone else has written. Or post something on X (formerly Twitter), Bluesky, Facebook, or Instagram.

This word is just one of the things that separates British English from American English. “Post” is British English for American English “mail.” Like “crisps” are British English for American English “chips” and British English “chips” are American English for “French fries,” How the French got into this discussion I don’t know.

But what I consider to be the more important question that applies to both British English and American Enblish is this:

Why is “post” spelled p-o-s-t when “toast” is spelled t-o-a-s-t?

Is that those pesky French inserting themselves where they don’t belong again?

Nicola Daly:

Like you, Esther, I only ever seem to receive junk mail and bills, but I still run to the letterbox to see what’s there when I see the postie stop – and I’m always disappointed when he drives straight past without stopping! Of course, it could just be another way to procrastinate…!!

Michnavs:

We Fell in Love

we fell in love when snail mail was all we ever got,
coupled with roses and chocolates, love became
so endearing, so sweet,
so charming, so honest,
so pure, so passionate.

we fell in love when letters were our lifeline,
sent through the post office or via a good friend,
accompanied by special instructions—
“son’t open, don’t drop,
handle with care until you reach,”
making love exceptional and oh, so real.

we fell in love when snail mail was our world,
but ours, my dear, never passed through
the post office or a friendly hand;
ours was written and shared right there,
on an old, weathered bench,
a solitary witness to our affection,
in that moment, everything felt true.

we fell in love when letters carried our hearts,
exchanging verses of longing,
these lines became the silent spectators
of our blissful love, unspoken yet profound,
flowing through my pen, bleeding on the page,
shattering between your replies.

we fell in love when snail mail was our song,
and who would have thought our love would endure?
amidst wrinkled papers and soaking lines,
your passion kept it alive,
while my desire to be loved made it thrive.
we fell in love when snail mail was our fate,
and who could foresee how we would survive
the rise of emails and smartphones,
facebook and Instagram—
these new, lonesome spectators
of our enduring bliss.

Sexagenarian Scribbler:

The most exciting post I ever received was a letter to inform me I’d won a car!

Back then, forty-odd years ago, consumer competitions were rife, involving buying a certain product and then praising its merits, or the particular supermarket in 12 words or less.

I was addicted, and over the years won hundreds of prizes, big and small, ranging from a frozen chicken! to several holidays, a conservatory, and that car.

The letter arrived just as everybody was getting ready for work and school. I had to read it twice to make sure I had read it properly.
My husband had to take the boys to school, I was in such a state of excitement, I was on a high for days.

The car was a Mini Metro, I sold it to my dad ( at a discount of course) as it was too small for a family with two young boys.

Sadly, the internet has taken over, and now it’s all a lucky dip on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

I’ve always had a love of words, and proper creative writing naturally developed. As one door closes…

The Bag Lady:

The definition I like most

Is the meaning of a wooden post

You know, the one defined by a garden gate

To lean upon while waiting for your date?

You might even end in mates?

I’m getting ahead of myself, but it’s late.

Roberta Writes shares some great thoughts about post – looking at the prompt more widely, like The Bag Lady:

Esther’s challenge for this week is to write about post. She meant post in the context of mail received through a postal service. This brought to mind the demise of South Africa’s postal service through corruption, theft, and mismanagement. It started with the theft of parcels which resulted in the establishment of private services for sending parcels. Amazon UK and US would no longer send parcels to South Africa via the government postal service and the services of private couriers had to be utilised for any orders from Amazon. This increased the cost of Amazon deliveries significantly and now I only purchase a few paperbacks in bulk orders and mainly read ebooks. Poor service soon resulted in the expansion of these private services to include the posting of letters and cards which just went missing or took three to four months to arrive at their destinations.

I didn’t want to write a poem about the sad disintegration of our postal service, but I thought I’d share it as an introduction to my poem about a poster so that my author readers understand why I generally purchase ebook copies of your books.

My next port of call was blog posts. I love reading interesting blog posts and I thought about writing a poem about posts but then I read a post by Rebecca Budd about her visit to the theatre and inspiration struck. You can read Rebecca’s post here: https://rebeccasreadingroom.ca/2025/03/16/and-then-there-were-none/

The Poster

The poster attracted my eye

“My Fair Lady’ splashed across its shiny surface

A black umbrella boldly silhouetted

Against a bright floral background

Childhood memories flooded my mind

Catherine and I singing ‘The Rain In Spain’

Me dressed in Mom’s bottle green theatre dress

Cath attired in a scarf dress in different shades of pink

Both of us sporting velvet theatre hats

One black, one dark blue

There was another, in brown tweed

That one languished, it was too masculine

For two giggling girls playing dress up

Who’d not yet reached double digit birthdays

Of course we had to go

Tickets were booked

The day awaited with eager anticipation

What a marvelous performance

Elize was magnificent

Henry Higgins perfect

With slouched shoulders

And a typical English cardigan in beige

The actor, another childhood memory

The lead in all my high school plays

It was a little shocking to see him

Sporting greying hair

But it worked, he was perfect for this role

We sang along with the songs

Clapped until our hands hurt

And laughed uproariously at the funny parts

In the basement, on the way to the car

We girls danced the can-can

While singing ‘Just You Wait’ at the top of our voices

Our menfolk lagged behind

Pretending they did not know

These two crazy women

Immersed in happy memories

***