Arguably, it’s pathetic the way I wait for the post.
I’m not saying I pace up and down with one eye on the “drive” (a few yards of stoney ground).
But, where I sit writing, I can hear the postie’s van and the clank of my outdoor metal postbox being shut after something has been deposited.
About 11 every morning, my ear stretches to the window.
By interesting I mean “parcels”. Letters now come only from three sources.
The three sources of letters
One is the bank (I’m paper-free apart from one account where physical documents are better for doing self-employed tax stuff for the accountant, who once proudly told me I was the lowest earner on their books: yay, at last I’ve come first at something!).
Another very occasional source of mail is Calor, who supply the central heating oil.
And the third is the one most dreaded, that awful NHS-headed notepaper saying time for another test to see if I’m still technically alive.
Getting older means being endlessly prodded, poked and probed.
No, parcels are the thing. And I get ever such a lot. I order everything online now.
It used to be just second-hand books or used this and that off yon eBay.
Now it’s everything. I could go to the shops, of course, but there aren’t any round here.
And, whenever I go on a long drive to a place where there are some, they never have what I’m looking for. How could they?
You want a specific colour of paint or a certain type of screw for DIY or a mauve hat: what are the chances?
Sometimes, I feel guilty about the volume of packets that arrive, as if the postie is thinking, ‘That boy has a shopping addiction’.
But it can’t just be me, and I often see him or his colleagues staggering up other drives bearing piles of packages like Santa Claus.
Love our regular posties
We’re lucky to have regular posties round here, and I really appreciate them. Truly useful folk.
The other couriers are also pretty regular and a nice bunch of lads.
We don’t lock our doors round here, and generally they just breenge in without knocking, which once led to embarrassment when the deliverer found me standing in my pants grilling square sausage on the cooker.
I explained, truthfully, that I’d slept in after a heavy night. Never batted an eyelid. Seen it all, I guess.
Some of us aren’t made for the office
When I worked in a newspaper office, I looked back at previous times waiting at home for the postie, and thought: ‘How sad.’
But that life eventually resumed again, and it’s been that way for 15 years now.
Some of us just ain’t made for office life, I guess, though oddly enough my happiest times were there, if that makes sense.
Besides posties, there’s also bin men
It’s not just the post that causes excitement, however.
There’s also the bin-emptying to look forward to. Again, regular as clockwork; folk doing genuinely useful work.
Recently, I asked myself if I’d done anything useful with my life.
The heavens opened and an imperious voice thundered: “Naw!” Oh well.
Still, at least by ordering parcels, I keep the economy going and the postie in work.
And, if I do find something useful to do with my life, I’ll keep you posted.
