There's a scruffy old man standing in his doorway beckoning to me and shouting. I'm huffing and puffing on the other side of the estate, trying to find my way in this rat's maze of 70s new build.
Is he wishing me the usual 'good morning' or the always amusing 'If it's bills I don't want 'em!' (I gave Bill's his earlier so fuck you to Hell). I get closer, he's ragged and very beardy - angry if anything. In fact he's yelling 'YER A CUNT!' at me. Repeatedly. He's quite agitated and spitting wildly by this point. Wearily I sigh inwardly and push on by. Luckily he's no mail. Well, none that he's getting off ME. So much for old people being warm and friendly. In fact I recognize the gentleman from the local bus.
He has a fragrant air about him that ensures he gets a seat. He must hate postmen. A few months later I encounter him in town while I'm walking home. He's exiting the chemists and is struggling to get down the hill unaided. He asks, nay bellows, for my help (a man in uniform?) Supporting his thick arm we shuffle down the road. He's not particularly offensive this time, just very angry at everyone it seems. I ponder throwing him onto the limestone pavement and watch him roll, slippers flipping in the air as I shout 'CUNT!' at him. But I don't. I listen to his rants and his story of how he used to be a binman. He's wearing the same clothes judging by the stains. We get to the bottom and he trundles off. No thanks. What would Jesus do? (push him under a bus?)
I shouldn't be on this estate at all. A manager put some beanpole on my designated walk to give that fellow some overtime! My spluttered protests went unheard and I was put on an 'easy' duty with a certain Frank. To say were struggling is correct. Neither of us know this particular estate, a spiralling intertwining mess of crumbling grey council houses lined with mobility scooters and abandoned kiddie's trikes.
The roads loop onto themselves often changing address halfway (I later discover after posting several Amazon packages to an empty house - 'Oh no, that's number 12, a different street' coos a nosey old cow neighbour. They should put fucking numbers on the doors). Blocks of flats are plonked between sloping roads so the doors are on opposite sides at different levels or simply completely unfindable (by me at least). I've never brought so much mail back. Who needs time-locks to keep out the post? It's the lack of street signs and numbers that heeds our progress. Plus the residents.
After the 'cunt pensioner' my views on the residents has soured slightly. An hour later I'm further down the estate, just off the 'green' (dog toilet), delivering to a row of connecting houses. I hear the dog galloping towards me from behind. It's a large mongrel coming right at me. In the momentary blur I make out the owner at the end of the path. It gets to me, teeth bared, hesitates. Luckily my pouch is still full of meaty bundles and I swing at the dog. The adrenaline has kicked in now and I'm kicking out, yelling insults. I'm scared, angry and very pissed off. Sometimes I resent my job for making me hate people, and dogs. The owner reaches us and he's worse than the fucking dog. A leary pissed up skank who joins his dog in having a go. I tell the rat-faced fuck to call off his dog but he's beyond reason. He squares up to me accusing me of kicking hos mongrel and I continue to shout back. The dog bolts off and the owner follows. I don't know how long we've stood here but I'm shaking and aware of an all over cold sweat. This isn't funny any more. I get out my phone and ring the dog-warden (speed dial) but they're worse than useless. I don't know where the owner lives so they can't pay a visit, and by now he's long gone. I consider the police but hace calmed down slightly and by now I'm WAY beyond my time. I have to get home.
Back in the van I tell Frank about the dog, the pensioner and the bundles of mail I couldn't deliver as I couldn't find the doors. Oh yeah, and the packages lying on the empty house's doormat. On the wrong road. He laughs and asks if I'm okay. He's also spent the last hour delivering mail to wrong houses and getting lost. It's good to tell someone. We drive off grateful we won't be coming back. For a while at least.
Years ago we (my wife and I) considered buying a house here. We viewed one house. The estate agent let us through the front door and the first thing we were immediately struck by sight/sound/smell of a very agitated dog in a cage. Slap bang in the (otherwise empty) front room - a pissed off ugly filtjy dog in a metal prison. It's tormented barkings howling round the empty house. Hmmm.
They say it's the first impressions that linger. The wafting aroma of freshly baked bread, the laughter of distant children, or a mad stinking dog in a cage. Cheap house though.
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