POSTED HOME

Greymouth Evening Star, 22 December 1934, Page 10

POSTED HOME

WOMAN’S EXPERIENCE. This is the story of Elizabeth Margetson, a “Sunday Express” London reporter, who, finding herself stranded, without money in a small town where she was unknown, solved the problem of returning quickly to the office in London. She walked into the local post office and had herself delivered as an express letter to her office in Fleet Street. She tells the story of what happened, as follows: — 1 was in Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire, nearly thirty-nine miles away, and I found 1 had no money left. It was important that 1 should go back to the office quickly. The banks were all closed, and there are no sympathetic British Consuls at Aylesbury to help benighted tiavellers home. I thought and thought—and then I had a bright idea. Walking into the High Street Post Office I asked to see the postmaster. “Can you post me back to my office?” 1 asked. The postmaster, Mr Bull, did not look surprised. "Certainly, madam,” he said. “Would you like go letter post or as an express package?” j| 1 inquired (he difference and dis*-1 covered that letter, post costs so [I much an ounce, while an express j package is rated milage. Remember-1 ing my ten stone eleven, it seemed that an express package would mean a less heavy strain on office funds.

"Bst can you send me so that I can be paid for at the other end?” I wanted to know. This time Mr Bull looked nonplussed. “I don’t know,” he said dubiously. “It has never been done before in my knowledge. Will your office guarantee to accept you as an express package and pay the charges?”

The guarantee was quickly forthcoming by telephone, and 1 was ready to be posted. A cheerful, seventeen-year-old telegraph boy took charge of me. He conducted me to the station, bought tickets, and ushered me into a train. He told me that his name was Sid-> ney Altlier Monday, that he was a Boy Scout, and that he intended to j be a postmaster himself one day. It was disappointing to find that I was not to be stamped or labelled, but Sidney carried an imposing-looking document concerning me in his leather wallet. When we arrived at Marylebone he hailed a taxi-cab, and steered me towards it. "What would you do if I were to run away?” J asked. Sidney treats the custody of express packages with great earnestness. “I should run after you, miss,” he said firmly, “and I might have to ask help from a policeman.” Ten minutes later I was duly “doll'- tred” at the front entrance of the “Sunday Express” office, charges amounting to Ll/5/2 were paid, and 1 was properly signed for. So there you are. If you find yourself stranded and penniless in a strange town all you have to do is to tell the post office to post you home. But —and this is a most important but—you can only do it this way if some one at your destination will guarantee to accept you and pay the charges. The person who agrees to do this may, if he wishes, have the entire charges entered on his telephone account. Sidney had a grand time. He went back to Aylesbury earnestly wishing hat large crowds of the general public would come to his town and post themselves to Africa of Monte Carlo nnd that he would be chosen as delivery messenger.