You don't like my attitude? Who are you my fucking dad? What's my name? Martine. Would you like the manager's mobile number too? I'm sure that he would love to deal with a complaint about my lapse in politeness. I'm sure it would be high on his list of priorities today. So you go back inside your twee little flat on fucking lapwing lane and call him and he will say, really, Martine, that sounds out of character for her, but I'm sure he would be happy to supply you with a more polite postman in future, one who doesn't have an emotional response to the current stress of the job and life in general but who can deal with everything with a cheery smile. I'm sure that any discomfort you felt at my lack of politeness can be rectified by reporting me to my manager since people in twee little flats on lapwing lane should not be discomfited in any way and are entitled to absolutely politeness in all circumstances. But this will not come out of my mouth. I want it to. I want to stand in the middle of the road and scream. I want to walk away from the van and sit quietly under a tree somewhere until the desire to scream subsides. I don't want to be polite. I am sick to death of being polite, of being cheerful, of being helpful, of being obliging. Sick.
Stay safe. See you tomorrow.