Money for jam
Graham Spence
THE warning bells
should have started
when management
breezily told me it
was ‘money for jam’.
It was a job for the
council – only 380
newsletters to
deliver and all I
had to do was stuff
them in
letter-boxes.
I would be paid 75
pounds (about R825)
for just a couple of
hours, she said.
Okay, I thought.
When you emigrate to
England and your
wealth is downsized
to an eleventh of
its former glory
overnight, anything
sounds attractive.
Laboured delivery
Management works for
the council’s
education department
and it’s cheaper for
it to hire people
prepared to walk
their butts off
rather than do mail
shots whenever they
want stuff like
newsletters or
election bumpf
delivered.
The area she’d
chosen was Winkfield,
the largest parish
in the borough where
we live.
I should have known
it was going to be a
long day when I
arrived at the
second delivery
address and the
owner was standing
outside.
‘Parish newsletter,’
I said cheerfully.
‘Stick it,’ came the
reply.
Whooops. Seeing the
look of bewilderment
on my face, he
continued. ‘See that
grass verge? You
bustids never cut
it. You spend good
money giving me
junkmail instead of
cutting grass!’
Okaaay … The next
building was a
town-house complex
with a locked gate
and no intercom to
summons residents.
I thought no one was
looking so I decided
to climb over.
As I was stiffly
doing so, a kid came
up.
‘Hey mister, why
don’t you use that?’
he asked pointing to
a turnstile marked
‘pedestrians’.
‘Er … good idea,’ I
said.
Down the road
again
But that road was
the easy bit. Much
of Winkfield, I soon
discovered, was
rural. In England,
anything ‘rural’
within 100kms of
London is a
euphemism for
stinking rich as the
real country folk
have long since been
bought out by elites
fleeing the big
smoke.
Also, few homes are
numbered. Instead,
they have names …
such as Bluebell
Cottage. And a rule
of thumb is that
whenever anything is
named ‘cottage’,
it’s a mansion.
Heather Cottage
sounds quaint until
you’ve crunched
along a kilometre-long
pebble driveway.
And when something’s
called ‘Gatekeeper’s
Cottage,’ it usually
is nowhere near a
gate, let alone a
cottage.
For some reason the
moneyed ‘rurals’
also like to hide
post boxes in the
most unlikely places
– behind a pillar,
or cunningly
disguised as an 18th
Century artifact.
But these Edwardian
chateaux certainly
gave me an insight
into how the other
half lives, and how
the government grabs
enough tax money to
throw at their
myriad of daft
projects such as Hug
a Hooded Psycho
Week.
Inevitably, like all
postmen, I did
battle with a dog;
an overweight boxer
who seemed harmless
enough when I patted
him through the
fence.
However, as I
entered he leapt up
at me, and although
he wasn’t snapping,
he was either very
cross or very
amorous, baring his
teeth and slobbering
at the same time.
I shoved a hand
around his throat
and we
underpants-danced
backwards until I
managed to un-hasp
the gate and make an
undignified exit.
After four hours,
long after
management said I
would easily have
finished, I had
barely made a dent
in the delivery
bulk.
I also had a
blister; my trick
knee was playing up;
and I was nursing a
raging thirst.
Incorrect picture
So when I came to an
‘establishment’
called The Kettle I
thought I would
sneak in for a quick
foamy.
However, the girl
behind the counter
eyed me
suspiciously;
middle-aged, muddy
and limping, I
obviously wasn’t her
usual clientele.
‘Parish newsletter,’
I said, flourishing
one.
She replied, but had
such a bulky
iron-stud in her
bottom lip – not to
mention ear and nose
– that I couldn’t
decipher a word.
Also, the pungent
smell of whacky
baccy in the dark
room made me realise
that whatever The
Kettle was brewing,
it wasn’t tea.
I was so knackered I
even considered
joining in.
By 6pm I had had
enough and jacked it
in with still one
last road to go.
The next morning
management came with
me.
The final section
consisted of a
well-manicured
retirement complex
with houses neatly
stacked together and
clearly marked post
boxes.
‘Money for jam,’ she
said.
