He never knew how much this meant to me

I waited, but when the Friday evening paper was hours overdue, I finally called the customer service desk. Promises were made about passing on the information to the local distribution point in Amsterdam. Monday came, and the paper fell through the mail slot early, folded around a hand-written note on scrap-paper which read (in French, rather than in Dutch or English, the de facto second language in Holland): I apologize for not having delivered the paper on Friday, The message ended with a comma. Time probably ran out before inclination. I was astounded by the courtesy displayed, and curious about his choice of language, assuming that he was from a former French colony in (North) Africa.

Soon afterwards I saw the delivery man at work as he approached my house on a bicycle with protective carrier baskets over the rear wheel. He lowered the kick-stand, pulled out one newspaper and stepped up to my front door with a serious limp. One hip was higher, one leg twisted in what appeared to be a polio survivor’s stance. I opened the door and thanked him for the note. He beamed, repeated his apology and explained that he had been educated in his homeland Morocco in French.

My subscription ran out, I didn’t renew and I never saw him again until our paths crossed much later at a post office in another neighbourhood. We smiled in recognition and had a chat. He reported having been promoted to delivery supervisor and moving house with his wife and new baby. The limp has not improved, so he'll be easy to spot from a distance as time goes on.