I always take great care to ensure that my Christmas presents reflect my standing as one of the country's leading celebrity entertainers and writers.
So every year I send out boxes of Charbonnel Et Walker chocolate truffles to my showbiz pals and business acquaintances. This year, with all this talk of the government shutting post offices, I thought I'd support Postman Patel and his teeny-tiny branch by toddling round there with the last few packages that my PA hadn't dealt with.
"Effing bloody effing government no effing TV licences no effing pensions effing bastards," muttered the great man as he blithely spent the next ten minutes rearranging paperwork behind the counter. He always seems to have something he needs to get off his chest, and as I was the only customer there, I thought it best to indulge him.
To my surprise, however, he continued in his own sweet way as the Royal Mail van man arrived. "Five effing bloody specials," he intoned, as the postman swept towards the door. I barely had time to blurt out: "Am I in time for the collection?" before the fellow had jumped back in his van, and revved off up the road.
Speechless, I was left standing in front of the counter, doing my best goldfish impersonation. But the guardian of the 'heart of the community' was no longer ignorant of my plight, and, as ever, had some crumbs of comfort to offer.
"You should have effing well bloody come earlier," he said, as he returned to shuffling his paperwork.