The P***** Off-ice

The toys in the back pages of the mail order catalogue that I used to study intently as a child always included a toy post office. It seemed to be the ultimate in happiness. I visualised myself tearing off rows of stamps and putting plastic change in the plastic till.

As we all know, life can be cruel, and nothing demonstrates this more harshly than the experience of the real life post office.

As most of the sub-branches have closed, and the main post offices no longer inhabit grand buildings with large, free flowing spaces, you now have to queue for about 40 minutes crammed between racks of party poppers and Doritos in the back of a newsagent. I am going abroad soon and had to send off a visa application. With a grim heart I headed for the local Post Office. True to form, my lunch hour ticked away while I stared despondently at tired looking jiffy bags. When I eventually made it to the front of the queue the ‘helpful’ assistant tried to sell me a polythene bag for my passport for £5. ‘No’ I said firmly, ‘I just want a recorded delivery stamp on the envelope and the return envelope inside’. He tried again to flog me the bag. ‘No’, I said more firmly and held what I hoped was quite an effective Paddington Hard Stare. He relented and did as I asked and charged me £2.35, which seemed a better deal..

Off I went, pleased everything was sorted and relieved I wouldn't have to step inside one of those places again anytime soon.

Never be too pleased with yourself I realised later in the week when the visa office rang to say they didn’t take cheques, only postal orders. I didn’t even know you could still get postal orders. With heavier heart I made it to a different main branch PO and queued again. This queue was more edgy, I think it was the metal struts forcing us into the grim zig zag queue that had the effect of making you feel like cattle being herded into the slaughterhouse that didn’t help. The metal bound corners proved tricky for women to negotiate with pushchairs, and a chap who looked like his last qualification was an ASBO swore at a mate on his mobile phone, using plentiful words that the women in pushchairs probably didn’t want their children to hear. There were about twelve counters in the post office. Three were used for an imaginative display of home made toys. I didn’t hold out much hope for those being opened up to relieve the queue any time soon. The other counters were manned by three staff, as spread out as possible. One chap on the bureau de change counter was hidden behind a pillar, and when he needed to call the next customer, had to walk round the back of the counters to attract our attention. Customers in the queue helped each other recognise when a teller became available, and we all waited less and less patiently while women untangled buggy wheels from each other and soothed children that were nearly catapulted out of their seats when the wheels snagged on the metal restraining bars holding the angry hoarde back.

I had low blood sugar, and no patience at all left by the time the man from the bureau de change walked round the pillar again. ‘I want a £32 postal order please’, I muttered through clenched teeth. When he told me that would be £35 I could feel my blood pressure rising. I went to put my card in his little money sucking machine. ‘We can’t take the card’ he said helpfully, ‘too much fraud around’.

This is a card I have used in most of the shops in the town and never had any problem. It is also a card that uses a bank that operates via the post office. ‘You can use it to withdraw money first, and then give me the cash for the postal order’ he said helpfully. I realised this was why the queue was so long, every single transaction had to be done the most labourious way possible. The man behind the counter was sitting back with a self satisfied grin. I didn’t like his attitude, but then I didn’t like anything anymore.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked, the question laced with acid.

‘Mike’ he said and glared at me challengingly.

‘Do you have a surname?’ I asked, struggling to sound rational.

‘I don’t have to give you that’ he said, wearing an expression familiar to me from the chap with the ASBO back in the queue.

‘What is your manager’s name then?’ I asked as sweat began to break on my brow and I started to wonder whether I needed anger management classes.

‘I haven’t done anything wrong’ said 'Mike', ‘it’s the Post Office’.

He didn’t help at this point by sitting back, delaying everything even more. Trembling, I reached into my bag and thankfully found the money in cash.

‘Who do you want it paid to?’ he asked, scowling at me.

‘The Syrian Embassy please’. He looked confused for a moment, and then asked,
‘C-I -…..?’.

‘No, not C, try S’ I said helpfully.

‘C?’ he went again as his finger hovered uncertainly over the keyboard and the furrows on his brow deepened.

It was lucky there was armoured glass between us at this point, as I almost spat out, ‘S_Y_R_I_A_N’. I was aware of the eyes of all the people in the queue boring holes into the back of my head.

I wondered why the post office employed people to work on the bureau de change counter who couldn't spell the countries of the world.

It all went on far too long, and I was probably out of order. I had a stab of sympathy for the chap as I left, it can’t be any fun dealing with frustrated customers all day.

As I stepped outside, there was a whooshing noise as my childhood dream of post office happiness evaporated.

Looking behind the Door

I've always wanted to be one of those really cool people who can sit at a piano and improvise away for ages with lovely, bluesy stuff. I've been trying to do this for about thirty years, and as soon as anyone says anything remotely like, 'ad lib around E flat' my fingers seize up and I can't do anything at all. I even attended a jazz piano course that made a whooshing noise as it went right over my head - how was I supposed to know what an 'open sus 14' was? I had sadly considered blues style piano was something I really just wasn't capable of, until this weekend.

I was staying at a friend's house and having a go on her rather wonderful piano. She had said something (mildly stinging) about my limited repertoire, which made me decide to try and play different stuff for a change. I was just twiddling around and suddenly, there I was, doodling on the ivories in BLUESY style. Everything was starting to make sense, 'arpeggio with a diminished seventh' I found myself thinking, 'improvise around C, E flat, F sharp and G' I remembered the piano teacher saying (with the spiteful chaser that it was so easy anyone could do it), 'pentatonic scale - just keep to the black notes' my son once said.

And there they were, in front of me, my fingers skipping around and the noise that was coming out SOUNDED PRETTY GOOD. Even my friend came in and said how good it was. 'Me', I thought, 'Me, playing blues'.

It was as if a very large and creaky door (like the seriously huge ones in the British Museum) had finally opened and some sunlight was shining through the gap.

It was fun. It was very fun indeed.

Is this the right platform?

You might be sitting at your computer, but really you are on Hampton Wick Station. I wonder whether the right train is coming yet?

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Ah, here comes the train now.

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Have a good journey!