The people who work in our post office are, to use the politically correct term, "a little slow." Long before I moved to this island, the government had a plan that worked. They sent those workers who were "a little slow," to work on a small island where hardly anyone one lived and where they could do the least harm. You know, slow life, slow post office.
And the people who were "a little slow" were happy. All they had to deal with were little old ladies who moved slowly, needed stamps affixed for them, or needed to withdraw their pensions from their postal savings account.
Then I moved in. Now, they needed people who could answer questions such as "Do you think this package will make it to Iraq within a week?" Or "What's the cheapest rate to Guadalajara?"