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06-Mar-2019 00:01 by 3 Comments

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I tried to leap from my rock to the other one but toppled off, scratching my hands badly.

Suddenly, I knew with all my heart that this was where we belonged. My flimsy red knickers were now floating like an alien jelly-fish and there was no way my sopping jeans would go on to my wet body.

What if it was a longed-for missive from a friend, a son or a daughter?

What if it was a notification of a huge Premium Bond win?

With unemployment high in Cornwall, I despaired of getting a job of my own, as I was turned down for positions as a supermarket cashier, dental nurse and waitress - I was variously overqualified or not experienced enough.

Then, miraculously, I overheard two mums talking in the school playground one afternoon about a vacancy for a postman.

'Morning,' I smiled at the walkers, catching the looks of disbelief on their faces as I strolled nonchalantly back home, keen to wake my still-sleeping family with the news of my epiphany.

It took time to persuade Ben, but eventually we sold our house in London and bought a dilapidated property in a village near Morranport, planning to make our living by running pottery-painting courses for children.

A haven for farmers and fishermen since the Bronze Age, it was also once beloved of smugglers, with little inlets hidden by the lush foliage and woodlands.

This was the area that inspired Daphne du Maurier to write books such as Rebecca and Frenchman's Creek, and now it was about to inspire me, too. Wild and exhilarated by this realisation, I tore off my clothes and plunged stark naked into the icy water, whooping and shouting until I saw people walking along the shore, coming quickly towards me.

Meanwhile, the letter which I'd saved was drying on a radiator.

It turned out to be junk mail, an advertisement for loft insulation. 'It was a brave, if foolhardy, thing to do.' Archie echoed the bravery line. How had I gone from my glitzy life to driving a red Royal Mail van in Cornwall?

I wasn't a morning person, nor did I think I was fit enough for all the walking it would surely entail, but the steady income could mean the difference between staying in Cornwall or whimpering back to London, broke, shamefaced and disillusioned.