The Postman Always Rings Twice

Wow, I really got a roasting on Facebook for that last post. Just when I thought this blog was supposed to be written by me and was therefore an online diary of my thoughts and actions as I saw fit to discuss, it turns out it's actually owned by everyone that reads it! Well, Flip Me! That's the last time I'll be doing that, so from now on I'm just going to listen to you instead and write exactly what ever it is that you want me to write about. So from here on in expect a load of Doctor Who content, a load of crap about some old Science Fiction programs that were axed for being too shit and travel blogs about places I've already been to.

'Gosh, really hope my readers like what I'm writing! I only do it for them anyway'

Hang on, no I won't. You can all go FUCK YOURSELVES. If you don't like it, don't fucking read it. But there is one I'd like you to do, if you have comments don't post them on the Facebook posting, put them on here please. The reason is, the Facebook stuff gets lost in the other torrent of shit that is the Newsfeed and at least they stay on here and are in context with each posting.

Yeah, just stop it.

Speaking of posting. I have just returned from the Post Office at Broom Lane. Fucking Hell, it was only an hour but I feel about forty years older the place had such a life-sucking effect on me. Recently I have got to know the different Post Offices around Rotherham quite intimately. The main one in town always takes a while as it is busy most of the time except in the afternoons when Rotherham becomes a ghost town for the most part besides around the Wetherspoons pubs, where beer is cheap and fights are often. There is another on Wellgate that is usually empty unless it's Pension/Giro day. This is no surprise given its close location to the feared Job Centre. The staff are VERY young in here and rather surly. They also, inexplicably have a dog behind the counter and it can get very disconcerting when you're asking to weigh a package whilst the young lady shouts 'Shurrup! Get down!' between asking if you want it sending First or Second Class.

'Can I send this to Rangoon, it's some silk stockings for a dear lady I met there in '43'
'Shurrup!'
'I'm sorry! All I want to do is to post this parcel.'
'Get off my leg!'
'How dare you? I fought in Two World Wars...'
'Stop shitting every where!'
'Boo hoo..'

The best by far is up at the Brecks. You walk in and are confronted by a section of brick-a-brack, second hand Robert Ludlum books, decades old Fishing Weekly magazines and most disconcertingly 'Treasure Hunter' metal detecting magazines from the 1980's. The place is like a Charity Shop and behind the counter are two old dears. Your heart sinks as you think you're going to be in there a long time as they work out how to turn the computer on. But no! Fear turns to pleasant surprise as they both are incredibly efficient at their jobs and burn through the pile of parcels in no time at all. Bam, in and out! The Brecks is so far away it feels like it's well over the County Line but it's worth the extra distance travelled to avoid going to Broom Lane.

Just the good ole' boys Never meanin' no harm Beats all you never saw, been in trouble with the law
since the day they was born Straightenin' the curves Postin' their mail...

To return to what I was saying, Broom Lane Post Office has the ability to suck the life out of you. It's like one big Derby and Joan club. The place is packed with pensioners withdrawing their life savings to stuff under the mattress, cos they 'don't trust the darkies running the banks', or sending a parcelled up kitten to their granddaughter working as an English Teacher in South Korea. Mind I think at least half of them were young and sprightly when they went in, they have just been waiting to be served for over fifty years. Because it is the slowest Post Office service in all of South Yorkshire, if not the country. If you had two parcels to send you'd be faster travelling to Land's End Post Office, posting one parcel, turning around and driving to fucking John O'Groats Post Office and posting your second parcel than you would waiting for an empty slot at Broom Lane. I was in there today as I only had a few parcels to post. I thought it wouldn't take too long, but boy, was I wrong. The queue was massive as usual, but the staff were oblivious to it as the customers at the counter were engaged in full flowing conversations about Bristol accents, travelling to Leeds conferences and how to be a Best Man at a wedding. I shit you not.

The best years of my life are passing by... I'll never have this time back again...

Eventually the queue thinned to an extent that I was finally seen. But my journey was not over yet. Not by a country mile. Every minute detail of the process was poured over by the Post Master, every press of the computer keyboard was deliberated to it's finite degree. Each address was meticulously recorded on the proof of purchase slip. I could feel another nail of my coffin slowly banging in as he printed and stuck each stamp on my post. I was stood there so long rigor mortis had set in on my left leg. Countless Aeons passed, great civilisations rose and fell before I handed over payment. The books in the parcels had long since turned to dust, but I was out of there! I could live and breath again! No more had my life been suspended in the Chryogenic process of the Broom Lane Post Office. The sooner they sack all the Post Office staff and replace them with robots, the better!