The post of the post

We have a good postal service in this country. Despite previous attempts to rebrand the Royal Mail (consignia? I mean, what was that all about?), we know that we're getting some high standard of postal service that to be honest I think is unsurpassed. Yes, so the US has a pretty decent postal service, but they don't deliver to your door, rather delivering to a small metal box at the end of your drive. Perhaps Pseudonymph can help me out, but I don't know how it works in Australia but I do know that all the posties seem to wear shorts.
The government, realising that they can make some cash in these desperate times, have decided the humble British Postman should hustle a bit on his round, meaning they can fit more in, reduce the number of runs needing to be made and maybe even lay off the slower of the employees.
My postman however can only be described as a miserable fuck. He arrives shortly before twelve, mobile phone attached to his ear (although I don't know if he's talking to someone or listening to music), and gently saunters around the village looking bored and thoroughly fed up.
I hasten to add, this postal route must be a bit of a loser for whichever postie is unfortunate enough to get it. I can hear the conversation now in the local sorting office...
"Bob, you do Wind Road. Bill, you cover Pont Aur. Miserable fuck, you're on Rhiwfawr again."
"Aw please. Not me. I'll do anything. Even the Gurnos without it's street lights and teenage truants milling around looking for someone to mug. Anything except Rhiwfawr."
Yesterday the boss must have given in as a treat. By 10am, I was surprised to see a young fit postie running past, delivering with a smile and a gentle wave. Mind you, he was only delivering a couple of bills again.