A String of Stamps

James was suffering from puppy love'. No, not the canine variety, but that warm slushy feeling you have for someone of the opposite sex. It was a time when all the things you think you know are wrapped in a shroud of vagaries and mysteries wild. You know, you've got past that pathetic stage and moved on to something which was even less comprehensible, like spending money on another person.

How stupid!

In James' case the immediate problem was not gifts, but stamps. You see his 'belle' lived half a world away in Newcastle-on-Tyne, and almost daily correspondence was now the expected norm.

It was a dark winter's evening when he fronted the stamp vending machine next to the post office in the High Street. In his hand he clenched two brown pennies. The stamp machine was supposed to 'cough up' a stamp for each inserted coin, which seemed quite fair, except...

Now this particular machine decided to digest James' coins and regurgitate S.F.A. in return. James was not amused. Careful examination of machine showed a portion of a stamp protruding, but no amount of coaxing would dislodge it. Had this infernal machine run out of stamps...or was this another ruse to deprive a young man of his new found status and female companionship.

There were no more pennies to be had, and a letter had to be mailed that day. What to do? The machine looked too solid to be given a left hook or even a head-butt. Then the penny dropped...

Lateral thinking, with which most school boys are gifted, surged to the forefront. James was no slouch in this department and in one swift movement his long trousers was divested of one leather belt sporting a brass 'Boy Scout' badge embossed buckle. A quick check showed it was wide enough and thick enough to pass through the penny gullet. Yes, it was the perfect fit and could surely be inserted far enough down the slot to activate the machine and deliver the required stamp or stamps. "After all", he consoled himself, "I'm not doing anything wrong. I've paid for the postage and all I'm doing is getting this machine to pay the piper." In went the leather belt, down, down, down click! A portion of stamp appeared at the appropriate receptacle.

"Grouse" (terminology of delight circa 1950's).

Eager fingers plucked at the stamp and it was pulled out...but instead of one stamp coming away, a whole string of stamps unrolled from the hidden depths....dozens of them....until the spool was empty.

"Ye Gods and little fishes" (I learnt this expression from P.G. (Piggy) Reynolds Geography teacher Walpole Housemaster).

What was I going to do?

I couldn't return the stamps. I stood there holding a streamer of stamps and feeling very guilty. I soon came to and gathered my wits. First thing, retrieve my belt!

Not to be!!

It was held firmly in place by some type of mechanism secreted in the bowels of the dispenser. I pulled in desperation. I grabbed the buckle and strap with both hands. It wouldn't budge. To add insult to injury I couldn't tear the belt and retrieve the protruding length either! Neither did I possess a pocket knife or razor blade to cut it off. Things looked bleak.

Thoughts of being frog marched to the local 'lock-up' by the boys in blue loomed realistically in my mind. I'd better scarper...and this I did.

The tarnished scout belt languished from the gorged slot with buckle proclaiming "Be Prepared". One day I guess I'll learn... but then I didn't have to buy stamps for a long, long time, did I?