Post haste

Pub quiz question.  What was the biggest Post Office robbery in history? 
Answer: when the government flogged it for far less than it was worth.
The Post Office used to occupy not just a special place on the high street, but also a special place in the British psyche, in particular, in that peculiar part of the psyche dedicated to nostalgia, which appears to be a substantial part judging by, for instance, the amount of telly programming time and endless bloody internet space given over to, for instance, recollections about kids programming in the seventies (both sweet and, more recently, sinister) and on-line conversations about some shared imagined past, most of it revolving around crisps (which is ridiculous, there was more to the seventies and Monster Munch, there were also the delicious ‘bones’, a salt ‘n’ vinegar flavoured corn snack so intense it made you feel odd).
Anyone looking at images of the seventies, documented on early video and Polaroid film, might come away thinking that the decade was mostly a brownish yellow, like the sepia of nostalgia for the man-made age.  Having lived through the seventies I can confirm that, brilliant blue skies of scorching summers apart, they were mostly brown and yellow, the exception being food in colours not found in nature, resulting in the sort of hyperactivity in kids that surely contributed to the popularity of disco and ‘the double deckers.’
Rural sub-post offices of the era were usually staffed by the sort of woman with a book of first class stamps under the counter to her left, and a double-barrelled shotgun under the counter to her right.  One of the benefits of the man made fabrics so popular at the time, and in particular the municipal carpets that typified the age, is that after an attempted stick-up, they were easy to scrape bits of villain off, as well as being remarkably stain-resistant.
The true age of nostalgia for the post office is further back, black and white rather than corduroy sepia, and of course centres around ‘Night Mail’, the film featuring poetry by Betjeman and, of course, iconic images such as steaming trains, shrieking whistles, and a carriage that was a mobile sorting office, with post office workers standing up busily sorting letters, wondering when the hell post codes are going to be invented or at least decent penmanship made mandatory in schools, and the mail bags being swung out for collection or dispatch from the moving train. 
These days of course standing on trains is a result of overcrowding rather than occupation, and the practice of collecting a sack full of letters from a pole at 80mph spectacularly fails every health and safety standard known to modern man.  And in the age of colour film, we communicate by electronic means and the importance of the mail is perhaps diminished. 
Maybe that’s why there was barely a murmur of dissent when the Post Office was sold.  Possibly it could only ever be privatised in the age of Farcebook and Blether.
There remains an affection for the postie him or herself, because you can’t help but admire anyone who struggles through the snow to deliver your Boden catalogue.  Of course, the last great act of public affection for the Post Office was the reaction to their painting certain post boxes gold in recognition of Olympic success in 2012. 
The new, privatised Post Office has declined to repeat this for the athletes who won gold in the 2014 winter Olympics, the predictable result being the guerrilla golding of certain post boxes by proud locals. 
Quite right too. 
The Post Office may no longer belong to the people, but our environment does and if some company wants to have part of its infrastructure stuck on our streets, it should show some respect and get gilding.