The usually tranquil sorting floor of Lower Bramble Heath’s esteemed Postal Exchange erupted in rare turmoil this past Emberday when five long-serving postal workers staged an impromptu protest over what they described as “oppressive working conditions, dismal snack provisions, and spiritual fatigue brought about by uneven satchel distribution.”
Eyewitnesses report that the mutiny began shortly after the second post of the day was assembled for distribution. Mr. Reginald Tork, a mailman with over thirty-eight years of service, is said to have placed his mail satchel squarely upon the weighing scale, sniffed, and declared, “This bag weighs more than my wife on market day. I shan’t deliver another letter until someone does something about this tyranny.” Moments later, four fellow postmen joined him in solidarity, forming what they dubbed the Brotherhood of Unburdened Carriers.
The group then proceeded to ascend the central sorting tables—polished walnut surfaces dating from the reign of King Edmund’s grandfather—and sat cross-legged amid the trays of unsorted post, striking a dignified pose while sipping from their emergency thermoses. They had come prepared, it seems, having previously compiled a typewritten list of 17 grievances, which included such entries as:
- Excessive satchel weight following Feast Days
- The unreliability of the rubber galoshes provided by the Office of Rainy Deliveries
- Inadequate supply of fig biscuits, particularly the chocolate-coated variant
- The lack of lumbar support in standard-issue post stools
- Unacknowledged excellence in punctuality
The protest caused immediate consternation among the Exchange’s managerial staff. Postmistress Honoria Haggerty, herself a veteran of 52 winter post seasons and a known stickler for timeliness, attempted at first to negotiate with stern stares and threats of reassignment to the dreaded uphill routes of Thornhill Bend. When this failed to sway the rebels, she retreated to her private office and returned fifteen minutes later with a pot of nettle tea and a slim volume of the Book of Uniform Conduct—a traditional postal text held in high regard by all deliverers of correspondence.
What followed, according to bystanders, was a surprisingly moving scene. Postmistress Haggerty read aloud from the chapter entitled On the Nobility of the Courier’s Path, pausing occasionally to refill the cups of her disgruntled subordinates. One observer, a junior letter-candler named Willoughby, reported, “It was the first time I ever saw Reg Tork tear up. The bit about ‘every letter a lantern, every address a sacred trust’ really got to him.”
The Brotherhood, mollified but not yet reconciled, agreed to vacate the sorting tables after two and a half additional fig biscuits were distributed to each, and upon the verbal promise that their grievances would be “taken under due advisement.” The entire affair lasted just under four hours, but already it has sent ripples through the broader postal service of Eyehasseen.
By evening, the Office of Postal Affairs had issued a parchment-toned memorandum acknowledging the protest and confirming the formation of a new Committee for Parcel Load Equitability. Headed by Baroness Orla Cummerbund, an ex-mountaineer known for her rigorous approach to weighted fairness, the committee is expected to review current satchel guidelines and consider redistributing routes in a manner “befitting both spine and spirit.”
Reactions across the realm have been divided. In the marketplace of Bramble Heath the next day, some citizens voiced concern that their letters might be delayed. “My cousin promised to write from the Ale District,” said Mrs. Tilda Nubbins, “and I fear his envelope may still be caught in that mutiny.” Others were more sympathetic. “Let them have their tea and better biscuits,” said a pipe-smoking greengrocer. “They bring joy, bills, and gossip. That’s worth a chocolate fig or two.”
Inverness Town Hall, always sensitive to uprisings—even gentle, biscuit-fuelled ones—has reportedly asked for a full accounting of satchel loads across the Five Postal Divisions. A spirited debate broke out in the Royal Council over whether the current weight regulations are based on “optimal ergonomy” or simply “Victorian guesswork carried forward without scrutiny.” The Chancellor of Footwear, speaking slightly out of turn, proposed a temporary reintroduction of pony post until the matter is resolved, an idea which was met with both derision and nostalgic applause.
Meanwhile, back in Lower Bramble Heath, the disgruntled five have returned to duty. Their satchels are no lighter (yet), but their spirits, reportedly, are. Reginald Tork, who now signs each letter stack with a calligraphic flourish, told this reporter: “We’ve lit the torch. Even if they don’t change a thing, they’ll think twice before handing me a bag full of pebbles and pensions next time.”
He then produced a biscuit from his coat and added with a wink: “Also, Haggerty’s switched to chocolate. So, you know. Small victories.”
The final word, however, may belong to the postal creed itself—etched above the sorting room door in hand-carved oak: “Through rain, fog, snow, or satchel injustice—we carry on.”