Afternoon chaps,
A few weeks ago I went to my Mother-in-law’s wake. To break the ice, the chat turned to first jobs, and I was asked what mine was. Actually, I’ve had a good selection of jobs in my time but my very first one was as a Paperboy (if such a job still exists then we probably now have to call it a “Paperperson” or a “Paperthey”)π°π°. I did that for many years, it was certainly a commitment and hard work fitting it in around school and delivering in all weathers. In those days everyone who lived in the village would get a Bradford Telegraph & Argus, us paperboys would meet at the shop after school and wait for the papers to be dropped off for Arthur the Newsagent to count out the papers for each of our rounds, we’d have 60-70 papers each to deliver. Thursday’s were the heaviest days because Thursday was jobs and houses day in the T&A. Our hands and clothes would get covered in ink, much to my mum’s angst π‘.
People who have never delivered papers would naturally think that it was a doddle of a job. Well they would be wrong! One of the biggest problems would occasionally come to light as you got to the end of your round, and that would be when you find that you are one paper short or one paper over. Then you’d have to work out what had gone wrong, maybe delivered to someone who was on holiday or missed someone who has just got back from holiday. In either case you had to resolve it because if you went back to the shop to tell Arthur he would “go Ape!!!” and give you a right bollocking! (This is where there is an advantage to not shoving the paper all the way through just in case you have to try and retrieve one that you’d accidentally deliveredπ€). Of course it could be that Arthur had miscounted the papers in the first place but he’d never admit to that. There was one occasion when I was 13 papers over! Which was quite obviously an Arthur mistake so I just dumped them all over the wall of the blocked up public urinals rather than taking them all back to the shop for an inquisition.
Financially, it was hardly worth while doing the job anyway. I’d get something like 80 pence for a week but I would typically spend it all on sweets, crisps and bottles of pop π¬πΎ. No wonder I ended up with a mouthful of fillings.
You never forget your round, I can still remember all the houses on it even today. The rickety gates on some people’s drives, the dogs, cats and the many different types of letterboxes. My favourite type letter box was a vertical one placed at head height with a fairly lightly sprung flap. When delivering a paper to this type of letterbox you could place the paper in it, leaving approx. 6 inches hanging out, and then you could give it a right good old fashioned thwack which would send the paper flying right down the hallway. I always wondered what the customers used to think when they got home to find their paper lying half a mile down their hallway or even better imagine a grannie sat there listening to the wireless in her sitting room only to watch in amazement as the paper came flying across the room at sonic speed right above her head π.
Then there was no 96, this house had a hip level letterbox, and without fail, every time I put the paper in this letterbox their dog πΆwould snatch the paper and shred it. I would be amazed if there was ever anything left of their paper to read in that house. Talking of dogs, I got bit twice, both on the knee cap whilst the paper bag saved me on a number of other occasions. Dogs that look menacing but not barking are the ones to avoid, whereas dogs barking were generally all talk and no bite.
I also had a cat πΊ hazard at no14, this one was a ground level letterbox and every so often their massive fat ginger cat would be flaked out having a snooze right in front of the letter box and it didn’t like to be disturbed. Fortunately, the worst it could do was a hiss and swipe with it’s claws.
No 8, was a run down old semi with an over grown garden of waist high grass and nettles, gate hanging off, paint peeling off the guttering, door and window frames. Sometimes the door would be open and a glimpse inside would reveal a bare floor covered in newspaper and very little furniture. There was also a very stale, decayed old whiff about the place. A little old scruffy lady lived there, and we were all scared stiff of her, reckoning that she was a witch. I would always dispatch her paper as quick as I could to avoid meeting her and having a spell cast on me.
Christmas time π
was best because that’s when we would get tips. People were generally, remarkably generous and we would accumulate a fair old sum of money for Christmas. I learnt then to never be surprised by people and never to pre-judge because the most unlikely looking person would often give the most generous tip. Of course you would remember those houses that didn’t give anything. I remember knocking on the door at no 108 and saying the “Happy Christmas” greeting which as we all know, translated means “give me my deserved Christmas tip”, only for the woman who opened the door to cheerily say “Happy Christmas” back to me whilst slamming the door right in my face. Needless to say, for the rest of the year if it was wet outside their paper would accidentally get dropped in a puddle before posting it through their letterbox.
Anyway, just thought I’d share my reminiscing π whilst I contemplate doing a bit of houseworkπ as it is typical Bank Holiday weather outside. Just this minute heard on the News about Sven – that’s so sad and upsetting, poor bloke, he didn’t get much notice did he π’. Ah well...... best make the best of it while we can.
Cheers
Spongebob