the paper cycle

A recent episode of Wallander (the BBC remake featuring a constantly blubbing star and several dopey sidekicks with frizzy perms, not the excellently dour Swedish version) featured a postman as the murderer..it was signposted early on in the episode by plonking a red post van conspicuously in a scene for Branagh to almost fall over. It's a nice thought, murder. GK Chesterton got there first with his murdering postie carrying his corpse in a mail sack unnoticed: 'the invisible man'. I understand the urge to throttle people.

the aged saga

News reaches us of a postie being hospitalised by a cat. I know this cat, I'm sure of it. The postie in question was so startled by the cat in the letterbox that he stumbled backwards, breaking his back, or something. When I first discovered this feline menace I didn't realise it was a cat at first, my first thought on feeling the intense pain in my fingertips was 'dog'. The wounds were pinprick small (but exceedingly bloody) so I assumed 'small scratty dog', or malicious pins in the letterbox. The next day I investigate.

the splurge of spring

there's no time anymore. Christmas madness has seamlessly morphed into snow and ice sheer fucking terror. I fell at Christmas, not in snow or particularly thick ice, just a thin layer of frost on a smooth stone slab. But boy did I fall, a classic legs in the air whoops a daisy. One minute there, the next 'whoosh!', lying on the gutter under a scattering of mail...flushed and shaken. Buster Keaton would be proud.

animals

"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.

tear stained letters

It's a time of contrast. Compare and contrast. I'm being bounced around these weeks, used and dumped according to who's sick/been sick/hungover. For a few frantic days I'm delivering half of a walk for a postie who's recovering from a (2nd) stroke ('you don't get a third!' states my mum chillingly)

the little fella

'Screwfix' apocalypse. These chunky odes for screwed up people are in abundance today; some homes even getting 2: mail the size of a brick jammed through their letterbox, taking the draught excluder with it, how ironic. if that weren't enough to drag around the village, 'saga' mags to boot...and here's me in the village of the damned, the same decrepit faces trundling round the village every day, zimmer frame in hand(s)...grinding a rut in the pavement. Then I see the cat, dangling halfway out of the front bay window.

fiery globe

"you won't get any answer there mate. Half of 'em are all fucking dead, they just haven't bothered to bury 'em yet." With that the mystery (council worker? cat burglar?) man produces a bunch of keys and lets me in the side door to the impenetrable flats. Shit, I was hoping for a no access scenario, take some mail back. I've spent an age buzzing my way through the many delightful cominations of flat numbers (1a, 1b, 1c...up to 11d) trying to get into these Godforsaken places...'trade' button? Don't make me laugh. They haven't worked for years, if ever. They may as well have put 'burglar' buttons on.

worktime learning

Tuesday: the supposedly quieter day thus staff are reluctantly manhandled upstairs for the weekly 'work time learning' session. An opportunity for us to 'have our say' and hear the latest management doctrine. It's usually a nervous line manager reading from a head office email: "we are investing millions of pounds towards a better future" "be sure to wear shoes in the winter" and so forth. Staff shuffle uneasily, glancing furtively at the clock. "any questions?" followed by a pregnant silence. We rush back downstairs like kids at the school bell.
The latest mantra from head Office is "mail volumes have dropped 10%" thus justifying various cutbacks/savings. It's hard to believe. Voume may have dropped but weight cerainly hasn't. People love their tat catalogues.

mush

Autumn rewards the weary soul with fruits of it's labour; Winter can lay a sparkling blanket of silver frost; Spring rejuvenate the coldest heart with bursting green promises of Summer; and then Summer, it gently pours buckets of cold water down your back and into your shoes.
It rained today, and rained a bit more. Saturday of all days. The dreaded early rise whilst the world slumbers..passing pissed up revellers on your way to the office and facing a drunken gauntlet of "hey postie/wanker!!" Scaring the scavenging seagulls (keeping the streets clean of vomit/kebabs), a mild sense of achievement before work.