OK, seeing that this thread is cheerfully degenerating, a story from a man I worked with. CRAFT moment about who he was, but he did a passable generic US accent, which would elude me. Why it was set in the US, I have no idea, but so it is.

Setting it down in type seems to demand more detail than the oral framework, so the folk process has duly operated.

Anyway:

There once was a wealthy investment banker who in the good years had a weekend retreat out in the country, far enough to be tranquil, but not too far to get back to NY early Monday morning.

The banker's wife was a kindly and thoughtful soul.They had married when both had been younger and he perhaps less driven. But at least he could afford for her not to work - outside the home anyway. There were no children.

She mentioned over the weekend that the local mailman was about to retire, and wondered if after a few years of solid service to them and many more to the rest of the community, they might give him some sort of decent retirement gift. After all, the man was a widower, saw little company except for his customers and faced a major life transition.

The husband hadn't much time - or, indeed, cash - for little people. 'Ah, screw him, give him ten dollars', all the while while peering and pecking at his laptop on the Sunday evening.

On the Tuesday, mid-morning, the mailman called by on his last delivery of the day and his career. The banker's wife chatted on the porch, asked him in and gave him a large glass of fresh orange juice.

Then she looked sweetly at him, took him by both hands, kissed him delicately and very gently led him upstairs, where to his surprise and their delight the widower mailman was slowly coaxed into mutual pleasure with the lady of the house. Thankfully, he had already completed the rest of the round.

When, in the fullness of time, they descended to the kitchen, she further delighted him with a substantial and good breakfast - grilled bacon and poached eggs on buttered wholemeal toast after the authentic English fashion, and proper percolated coffee.

On the table there lay, trim and fresh, a ten-dollar bill.

Recovering his powers of speech, the now retired, tired, sweaty and spent mailman asked, 'Please, thank you, that has made me so happy. Might just I perhaps ask why, madam?'

A fair question when their relationship had hitherto been impeccably proper.

'Well, you see, it was really my husband's idea.

Except for the orange-juice and the breakfast - that was my own idea.'