harder faster

Monday's used to be the easy days but not anymore. If you're a reserve, covering holiday leave/sicko's then they're even worse. Every week a new walk to learn. No training, no welcome, no nothing. Find the right frame and go. A strange empty frame looms over you, a bewildering array of street names and numbers flash before your ragged eyes and you haven't even picked up a letter yet. Chances are, the first one you pick up will probably be a missort so you waste extremely valuable minutes desperately scanning the huge huge frame and names and numbers and colours, and missing bits..where the hell is it?? It's not here mate...move on...you inwardly scream and feel the sweat forming- the minutes turn to hours...everyone else is off for a coffee...shit, there's mountains of mail to wade through..stuff in the stupid pathetic slots in seemingly random order...Oh God, help me...
some faceless flunky dumps another fat, tightly bundled, pack of warm letters on your already massive pile. By this stage panic has set in and the hot stream of tears alerts an ever vigilant line-manager to your cause and they send someone over to help you throw it out. He doesn't know it either. Now there's two of you desperately staring at a huge, almost naked, frame clutching a letter that belongs on the other side of the office (who left an hour ago). Awkwardly dodging body-contact, reaching around each other to get all the letters in the correct frame. Fuck, wait..I haven't done the door to doors yet..fuck indeed. The hellish piles of real 'junk' mail that must be delivered to every door for the grand sum of up to 2 pence per item...that'll pay for the new spine. Another hour is spent folding these vicious little shitters into each other and then behind the mail in each slot..aarrgghhh!!! Right, nearly there. seemingly endless hours of this you're ready to take it all this worthless horde out again and bundle it up in elastic bands, ready to push through letterboxes to be collected, thrown in the green box, pulped and turned into land's end tat catalogues....and so it goes on. The eternal mail cycle. First you also have to discover someone left in the office who knows how to bundle up this bastard walk and bag it up...there's fear in your eyes, some poor bastard takes pity on you and spares you 1 minute to explain it. "well you don't do it to the frame mate" "you have to start here" (middle of a street somewhere) "doing half of the evens, then back this street but leaving the odds (from 33-57 though NOT 45, Christ no) walk through the left ginnel, turn 40 degrees and take 22 paces North-East.." etc. You will be late.
As the week wears on you gradually get to know the frame. However, mail volumes increase so you never catch up, and then you find yourself facing another the following week. Then people moan when their mail is invariably later than usual (about tea time). "where's the other guy, the little one with the dickey eye?" they bleat. "he's lovely" Fuck. Off.