Much to my own surprise - and greatly to the detriment of my reputation as a quietistic flâneur - I have lately spent a few rain-affected hours delivering leaflets door to door. I was guilted into doing this by an old (and very political) friend to whom I had made my views on a Certain Subject all too clear. As to the nature of that Certain Subject, I can only repeat the words of the great Fred Kite: 'My politics is a matter between my conscience and the ballot box.' Hem hem.
Delivering leaflets, even in the rain, has its up side - you get to see some very nicely planted front gardens, some agreeable porches, and some fine front doors, especially the Victorian survivals, complete with stained glass. These Victorian doors usually feature the very best letterboxes too, ones that open obligingly to let the post in without impediment - surely the essence of what a letterbox is supposed to do. More modern ones, however, tend to be so heavily fortified against the possibility of draughts that getting anything as flimsy as a leaflet into them is a frustrating, finger-shredding business. And a letter box can be anywhere, from ground level to eye level, vertical or horizontal, set in the door or the wall, porch door or front door (or, in one or two cases, apparently nowhere at all). You'd have thought, wouldn't you, that the EU could have made itself useful by standardising the design and location of domestic letterboxes... Anyway, that's the last time I lapse into political activism.