Since the journal went down there has been a few times when I would have written, but I thought I'd wait. The temptation to indulge in tripping has diminished as well because I hadn't got my comfy journal to scribble in. Sometimes I don't think these jottings warrant entry in the trip reports section on account of the fact that my entries tend to take in more than just trip information. Other times they are just journal entries.
Work has been gradually winding up towards Christmas. The volume of mail is reaching miserable proportions, meaning that 12 hour days are the norm. Thankfully the glossy A4 size brochures and letters have eased of during the festive period, and the weekly leaflet drops are suspended. However the volume of parcels is enough to drive a chap round the bend. Suppose you have five medium sized packages on one street, this reduces the amount of mail that can be fitted in a bag. Meaning that a round that might take, say four twenty kilo bags now takes six or eight bags even, though lighter in weight (Parcels weigh less by volume than a bundle of letters.) I'm starting at five am and finishing at 4-5pm each day. An undeniable bitch.
A recent news report informed the public that the Royal Mail Human resources department feel that postmen should be walking around on the job at approximately four miles per hour. This has provoke some hilarity amongst the blokes, and a refreshing breeze of sympathy from the public. The fact that we must fill in a slip of card for undeliverable parcels means that for the five minutes that takes, we must redouble our speed to perhaps four miles an hour to compensate. We just love it when the office wallahs slip up and embarass themselves. The title of Human Resources takes on almost Nazi overtones when they spout claptrap as described.
I found a handbag in a front garden just along the street from a Police van the other day. It was a bitterly cold and wet morning, and it was a sad site, sodden wet, spilling whatever makeup and trinkets that hadn't taken the burglar's fancy. I picked it up and handed to a pretty girl who lived at the house where the van was parked. She looked distraught.
Work has been gradually winding up towards Christmas. The volume of mail is reaching miserable proportions, meaning that 12 hour days are the norm. Thankfully the glossy A4 size brochures and letters have eased of during the festive period, and the weekly leaflet drops are suspended. However the volume of parcels is enough to drive a chap round the bend. Suppose you have five medium sized packages on one street, this reduces the amount of mail that can be fitted in a bag. Meaning that a round that might take, say four twenty kilo bags now takes six or eight bags even, though lighter in weight (Parcels weigh less by volume than a bundle of letters.) I'm starting at five am and finishing at 4-5pm each day. An undeniable bitch.
A recent news report informed the public that the Royal Mail Human resources department feel that postmen should be walking around on the job at approximately four miles per hour. This has provoke some hilarity amongst the blokes, and a refreshing breeze of sympathy from the public. The fact that we must fill in a slip of card for undeliverable parcels means that for the five minutes that takes, we must redouble our speed to perhaps four miles an hour to compensate. We just love it when the office wallahs slip up and embarass themselves. The title of Human Resources takes on almost Nazi overtones when they spout claptrap as described.
I found a handbag in a front garden just along the street from a Police van the other day. It was a bitterly cold and wet morning, and it was a sad site, sodden wet, spilling whatever makeup and trinkets that hadn't taken the burglar's fancy. I picked it up and handed to a pretty girl who lived at the house where the van was parked. She looked distraught.