Day 64

5.01: “Don’t worry,” said my Mum to me the other day, trying to fish me out of another ditch of despair. “Trollope hated his job.” Back to postmen (though Trollope, remember, wasn’t actually a postman). I’m drawn to those loveable heroes of the pavements like a mosquito to a holidaymaker’s ankles.

So tell me if there’s anything in the world more cheering on a March Monday morning than this. If this isn’t a triumph of the human spirit over having an intestinally drudgerous job, then I’m Bertie fuckin Bassett. I’ve got a circular aniseed face pocked with little balls of sugar, and a coconut trilby. Just listen to this, and tell me you’re not cheered: four postal workers in Ghana click, franking and whistling a song as they cancel stamps.

Now go to work. And there better be a goddam skip in your step.

6.56: Two hours of trilling at the keyboard later, I’m still whistling that tune. And I’ve been clicking the mouse along to its skittery syncopations too. That’s one infernally catchy little ditty, adhesive as heroin, or Catholicism. It feels like those Ghanaian post office guys have patched it straight into my brain. Except, knowing me, I doubt I’ve got the strength of mind to keep up their sunny can-do, get-through forward march in the grinding long-term. The medicine had perhaps better be taken regularly.

11.30: Small update. I still have the Ghanaian whilstling post office band chirruping away in my head. That tune’s more contagious than chickenpox.

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~ by David Thorley on March 22, 2010.

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