They say that you’re up shit creek without a paddle when your life turns into a George Jones song but just how crap must it be if it’s one long Morrissey song?
This thought occurred to me as I trudged up Sycamore Hill, toward St Hilda’s cemetery, with ‘Every Day Is Like Sunday’ corkscrewing through my brain. I plonked myself down under a massive oak tree and lay back against a cold gravestone to catch my breath.
And then I rooted in my bag.
Once upon a time being a postie was a cushy little number riddled with perks –as long as you didn’t mind the early mornings and kids calling you Postman Prat, that is.
Christmas was great, with prezzies from the sad and /or lonely punters that you’d carefully buttered up over the year; bottles of booze, socks and cash. And of course there were the greeting cards that some daft old duffer had slipped the odd fiver or tenner in - that made the day worthwhile. It doesn’t exactly take MacGyver to secretly open and reseal an envelope.
But, since this new lot came in, it’s all gone pear shaped –as they used to say in The Bill -and you’ve really got to watch your back. Postwatch are hovering over us like vultures. Mind you, you can still nick the odd fiver or tenner and, of course, you can find out all sorts about your friends and neighbours.
And knowledge is power.
Take the time I saw the solicitors’ letter to Keith from the garage. He’d been charged with indecent exposure after getting caught short and taking a gypsy’s against a Primary School wall after an afternoon session. Not exactly Manson-esque as far as crimes go, I’ll admit. but at the time he was going through a nasty divorce from an even nastier wife and was fighting to get custody of the kids. Well, it wouldn’t take much of a lawyer to turn that little incident into the work of a kiddy fiddler who was shaking hands with the one eyed milkman at playtime. Keith wouldn’t want that fact getting out, I’m sure.
Which is what I impressed upon Keith one afternoon in the Rovers Quoit Club and he was so grateful than he was more than happy to pay for my two weeks in Lansagrotty, no worries. But, like I said, things have gone down the Swannee a tad lately and my enthusiasm for the postal service has, shall we say, waxed and waned.
So, there I was on the top of the hill gargling a miniature of brandy and chomping on a Gingsters pork pie –breakfast of champions- and seriously considering jacking it all in and going on the compo. Now, it’s been no problem for me to get sickies since I took it upon myself to personally deliver some photos to Dr Kay -because,oops, the envelope they were sent in had bust open. I thought the pics of him pissed as a fart in Stringfellows were a bit of a laugh, to be honest, but Councillor Kay didn’t seem to think that his constituents would agree.
So with a lifetime of disability allowance on my mind I dug deeper in my bag and – bingo.
*****
‘You got farmers?’ Said Cameron the barman.
‘Eh?’ I said stuffing a handful of pork scratchings in my mouth.
‘Chalfonts?’
‘Eh?’
‘Clement Freuds?’
‘Oh, piles. Why do you say that?’
‘Well, you’ve been up and down like a brides nightie all afternoon. In and out of the khazi, playing the one armed bandit, playing darts. I’ve got some of my old mums cream left, if you want.’
I ignored that kind offer and tried to relax until she came.
And at six o'clock she did.
*****
These days, most people wouldn’t know who Barbara Woodhouse was but, let me tell you, she was massive in the early eighties. Bigger than Cutting Crew, Miami Vice and Metal Micky combined. She could train any dog, in fact, any animal –she even trained a Praying Mantis once.
No one would recognise her now, though, or see the resemblance between her and Sarah Walker. The big granny glasses, the navy blue sweater and the tweed skirt weren’t all Sarah and her had in common either.
‘Sherry?’ I said as Sarah sat down.
She nodded and I went to the bar.
‘You like that film ‘Calamity Jane’, Cameron?’ I said as I bought the drinks.
‘Doris Day? Alright., I suppose.’ Said Cameron. ‘I’m more of an ‘Oklahoma’ man, meself.’
‘Same here but it had some good tunes, too.’
I turned and grinned at Sarah.
‘What was the song?’
‘Secret Love?’ she said.
‘Naw the other one’
‘Whip crack away?’said Cameron.
‘That’ll be right,’ I said as I sat down. ‘Whip. Crack. Away.’
Sarah looked very pissed off indeed.
*****
Credit where credits due, mind you. You can’t deny that old Mozza’s knocked out some cracking tunes. I thought this as ‘Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others’ ran through my mind while I lay hand cuffed to Sarah’s massive four poster bed. Sarah’s stood in front of me, done up to the nines in leather and looking more like Valerie Leon from the Hai Karate adverts than Mrs Woodhouse.
When I found out that the town’s Head of Library Services was earning a bit of pin money as ‘Miss Cream Whip’, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. And I was right.
‘Mr Postman, stand and deliver.’says Sarah.
And, as she cracks her whip, I do just that.
(c) P D Brazill 2010