Hardly anybody writes letters anymore. So what does this mean for the blue-shirted men and women whose job it is to stamp, sort and send?

Having assembled at The Mart in Rathmines, we are led by a bucko with a keen eye for fire exits (working in a building full of paper will do that to you) into a centre for sorting returned letters. Spirited young performers playing postal workers busy themselves around the space, turning work into music that underscores a sense of tradition: a past more personalised than punctual.

Sorted like the post, we are divided up and brought through the quaint building. Inventive design elements board up windows with envelopes and suspend flyers and take-away menus in mid-air. Three workers get on their bikes, exchanging chat, and we realise just how social the service is to both those who deliver and those who receive it.

When it tries to be political it doesn’t quite succeed. Scenes that touch on issues of gender politics and workers’ revolution lack a strong enough stamp that incites something in the spectator. But this doesn’t dampen the spirit of the event. Besides, there isn’t that much time to think about it because before you know it you’re given your own postal route and being reacquainted with the business of sending letters. A little more training wouldn’t have gone amiss.

Star rating: ★★★