The Woman From The Post Office

Returning to the fundamentals of this blog, I forgot to mention someone I encountered on Saturday who is extremely worthy of extradition to Grantham - the woman from the Post Office.
I have met this woman on many other occasions in the past but, for some reason, I never before thought to send her packing to Lincolnshire. Her fine performance yesterday - one of her finest to date - has left me with no alternative, however.
I wobbled in to tax my car and was hoping Bespectacled-Friendly-Post-Master would be behind the counter, but no. It was Myra Hindley's step-sister, again! She obviously did her customer service training in the SS and is about as good with people as is a pit bull terrier.
I handed over the requisite documents and all I got back was a "S'wrong!"
"What's wrong?" I enquired.
"Yer licence application form - s'wrong."
"It was the one they sent me."
"S'wrong."
"Could you please add a little detail before one of us dies."
"S'th'old form. Yer need a new 'un."
"Do you, per chance, have a new one?"
"Doe bother. D'yow want six months or a full year?"
"As it said on the form you have just put in the bin, six months, please."
"Yow doe wanna full year, then?"
"Are you sure you want to be a nightclub comic?"
"Yer what!?"
"Just the half-year premium, if you'd be so very kind."
"Is it yower car youm taxing?"
"No, it's a bloke's I met on the bus earlier. After that I shall be taxing the cars of selected residents of the village."
"Uh!!"
"Sorry, just a jape. Yes, it's my car."
"There's a gap."
"Between your ears?"
"Between when the tax ran out and now."
"I know. I forgot. Those nice boys and girls at the DVLA have fined me £60 for the memory lapse."
"You get fined for not taxing it, yer know?"
"Hello! Earth calling Post Office assistant."
"How d'ya wanna pay?"
"Begrudgingly?"
"Will it be cash or a card?"
"A card, please. Have I put it the right way up in the machine?"
"Yow cor use that!"
"Why?"
"It's a credit card."
"You said I could use a card."
"Not a credit card you can't. Yow can only use a debit card."
"Isn't language a wonderful thing. I haven't got one with me."
"Next!"
".....but I do happen to have the cash on me."
"That'll be £99."
"Is there a discount for cheery bon homie?"
"Only discount is when yer pay for a full year."
"Regardless of demeanour?"
"That's a powund change."
"Could you slide it a little nearer to the gap under the screen. I can't reach it."
"Tsk!"
"I've enjoyed this."
Thing is, this harpie isn't a 20-something, acne-riddled youth. She has to be in her 50s! Why the Hell apply for a job which brings you into constant contact with the public when you evidently hate everyone who moves? More than that, who gave her the fucking job in the first place? What, exactly, did she do to impress the Post Master? The mind boggles but inevitably drifts to thoughts of amazing oral sex and skilled used of an index finger.
No, the woman from the Post Office has to go, and go now!