"can you close the gate, I have an animal you know!" No fucking kidding you old sack, I've seen your wife. I think this whilst other words tumble past my lips. Stuck in suburbia with retired, boring, bored, gate loving twats. I explain to the gentleman that I left it as I found it but he goes on: "but gates are made to be closed aren't they?" Yes, repeatedly on your skull.
I have no energy nor desire to argue so I leave him to his world of closed gates and oblivion. These streets are long and straight, average and ok. The great grey blubbery mass of society live in streets like these. Sky preys on them relentlessly, badgering campaigns week in week out. I plod on, reminding myself which street I'm in. Someone in a passing car shouts 'scab!!!' at me. It's the time of the strikes but not today. They must be hoarse by now, shouting scab at every fucking postman they drive past...hwere do they get their news from? Sky I expect, Jeremy Kyle news feed? Daily Mail most likely, I wouldn't like to be their postman, all then turds in boxes. I hear they're bleating of strikes in December. Now that would be bad..containers full of backed up parcels. Abandoned packets as far as the eye can see...poor Jimmy's new heart valve lost in a gargantuan pile of brown paper: what a thought..oh no wait, that was last Saturday when the mangers completely misjudged the volume of mail and we all had to cut off. Understaffed? Yes. your mail will wait, and it's gonna get worse. Merry Christmas. Don't forget to tip your postman at this time of year.
Posts
