'Let me show what I do with these' my colleague says.
He then rips off the bright red Recorded label and stuffs the, now ordinary, packet through the letterbox.
'But don't let me teach you my bad habits' he cackles.
I'm being trained. i.e. being shown the ropes by a cynical, bitter and twisted old bastard. It's Royal Mail policy.
Trained on a 'rural' (webbed hands) walk as the frame doesn't correspond in any way whatsoever with reality, and the reality is pretty grim. My head is hurting. I've spent the past hour trying to follow my 'trainer' but he's racing ahead, spouting this and that. All the roads are merging into one semi-detached mush and I'm lost.
Luckily I wrote it all down, somewhere. His bad habits are a bit shocking but they're his alone. We finish early.
'Pint?' he asks.
So we kill an hour in the local pub (empty) that stinks of Dettol and old musty dogs. All I've learnt is how to avoid asking signatures for Recorded items and where the donkey sized dog is (you smell it first).
We'd spent a jolly morning slotting the usual mail into the slots, preparing this weeks door to doors (Local Choice...if by choice you mean choose a shit ad; Somerfield arse wipes and the ubiquitous local pizza/salmonella rob dog merchant). The usual. When all the letters and packets (lots of mail order plants this time of year, they crush easily...if you do it right) have been sorted I'm told to grab a piece of paper, in fact several sheets, by my trainer. He then goes through, in minute detail how to bundle up the walk. I'm used to frames not corresponding completely with how you walk the route but this one is a killer. I've two A4 sheets full of spidery instructions and numbers. There's lots of warnings along the lines of 'whatever you do do NOT put numbers 42 and 51 in this bundle..save those til the end and zig zag the odds whilst backing alternate evens but NOT the post office...' We're late leaving. Tomorrow I'm on my own. Where did I put those papers...?
Fucking hell. Give me a block of piss stained flats any day.