I had been hoping for the full-colour Myer sale catalogue, but instead there’s a creased Kodak mailer-bag, paper grimed faint black round the circular edge of an 8-mm film can. A slim, intensely yellow package in an otherwise empty mailbox. The postie hasn’t been. That’s the problem. 

It’s been years, decades; silverfish have eaten some of the yellow off. The label displays my address in my handwriting, but long ago and so much neater. My heart double beats. I remember when I sent this film off to be processed and it didn’t come back. I made accusing telephone calls to the company and post office. It still didn’t come back.