The Danish Post

The Danish post has stopped delivering letters.

Letters. Remember letters?

No, you don’t. The Danes don’t get letters anymore.

On average. Statistically. Mathematically. Scientifically.

So. No letters. You can’t deliver what isn’t there.

They’re pulling up the letter boxes.

Out of the ground. Like weeds. Like rotten teeth.

From a rotten mouth of a rotten country that doesn’t want letters.

Doesn’t want words. Doesn’t want connection.

Just wants parcels.

Parcels, not letters, thoughts, feelings, humanity.

Parcels of bluetooth ear buds, flat-pack lamps, LED lights.

Parcels of tiny bottles of Scandinavian hair oil & vitamin pills.

Something smells in the kingdom of Denmark and it's not fish.

It's not Hamlet’s uncle.

It's cardboard. Tape. Bubble wrap.

Its Eau de Parcel.

But don’t laugh at the Danes.

Don’t point at the Danes.

Don’t wag the finger at the Danes.

Because the UK is following.

Always following. Not leading. Following.

Into the same future of no letters, no words.

Just parcels. Just cardboard.

Just the sound of a Stanley knife on tape.

Shhrrk. Shhrrk. Shhrrk.

And don’t you dare smirk and scroll!

Because you did this. You clicked. Ordered. Tracked.

You love it. The dopamine hit.

The little 'out for delivery' notification.

You love the parcel more than words. More than people.

You love it more than your granny.

Your granny, who wrote you letters in blue ink.

Curled handwriting. Tea stains.

You swapped your granny for a £3.99 phone case from Temu.

That’s who you are now.

Cheap. Greedy. Hollow. Empty.

A click-addicted husk, waiting for cardboard to fill the silence where your soul used to be.

The letter said

I’m alive. I’m thinking of you.

The parcel says

You needed another USB charger. Air fryer. Weighted blanket. Another parcel.

The letters are gone.

The letter boxes are gone.

But the parcels keep coming.

Click. Click. Click.

Until the end of time.

And I suppose that’s progress.

Anyway, I’ve ordered a parcel.

Should be here Tuesday