opinios

The good thing about being a postman is a nice cup of tea. If you've got a little bit of charm as possessed by my good self here, you can worm your way into some lady's house for a sit down and a brew, which it has to be said, breaks the round up and gives a breather to the old feet. But it's all about polarity though innit? Without me legs and feet being all sore an' that, I wouldn't half as much appreciate that cuppa.

So yeah, I go in for a cuppa with the ladies. I can see where you's goin' already. You think it's all about humping bored 'ousewives an' all that. You know like it's "Hello Postie, would you care to stick some letters through my mailbox?" all posh like. But it ain't like that, it's mostly, you know, old dears like. They just wanna chat like. Them's on their own, most of 'em having lost their fellas years ago. So a little chat goes down well with them, just like the Earl Grey goes down a treat with me, sitting in the front room in an armchair with the best china in me hand.

You see, tea is an institution. When you roll up at someone's 'ouse, and without saying nothing, they pull out a brew just how you like it; milk and two, milk no sugar, just black, half a sugar and a little bit muddy if you're fussy. It's like you really know someone if you know 'ow they like their tea. Me, I like it with just milk these days. I used to have a sweet tooth, so many sugars you could stand the spoon up in it, but my dentist told me there was more holes in me teeth than there was potholes in the road. He said it's hot drinks with sugar, eat away your teeth in the blink of an eye they will. So I knocked it on the head. Just milk these days, took a bit of getting used to mind, but now I really like it. I can taste the tea better. Well I can taste the tea full stop. Bit of a revelation it was at the time, you know like there's tea in tea and not just milk and sugar.

I also like bein' up an' about on the streets before everyone else. Everything's all quiet and the sky's all purple, you can feel the day coming but you're already up like. It feels like cheating, I get a kind of cheeky feeling. I like it. An' also at that time, with the streets all empty, the birds are about. It's their time of day it is. They're smart them birds. They know when the best time a day is, chirpin' about while we're all in bed. Chirpin' and shittin'. They're amazing birds are. I remember when I was little and wondering, where exactly does a bird shit from? You know, I'd stare and try and look for an arse like, but I never saw nothing. Did they shit from between their legs or was it further up? It was only after years of careful watching that one day I spotted it. Well to tell the truth I never exactly saw its arse like, bein' covered in feathers an' all, and to really tell the truth, I was so wrapped up in me biological studies that it nearly shit on me head!

But I saw it emerge from those feathers halfway between the legs and the tail and the white shit landed next to me foot with one of those green bits in. It looked like muscles I reckoned, like funny French food. I felt happy that day I did, knowing where a bird shits from, knowing where the arse of a bird is.

Some streets however, you won't get no tea though. Others it's like every house has a cup-a-tea in it, even if I don't 'ave no letters. Pilkington Lane is one of them streets, so I always break me round up halfway on Pilkington for a sit down and a cuppa.

And so it was the other Thursday. It was raining, well it weren't raining proper, it was just like the water had been blown through a tea bag. The air full of like drops. It's what me Grandad, bless his soul, called wetting rain. It don't look wet, but after thirty minutes it's like you been sat in a bucket of water.

So that's 'ow it was when I rolled up No.6 Pilkington Lane an' I stood there on the mat as to give the doorbell a ring. Mrs Jones appears like "Morning Postie" she says. " 'ello Mrs Jones" I say, " See them birds've been at your milk again." " Little devils! " she says.

Cos you see Mrs Jones has her milk delivered by the milkman like, probably the only bloke up before me. So every morning she has a pair of pints sitting on the doorstep with them shiny foil tops. Now them tops for a bird is like a red rag to a bull innit, they just can't help themselves, so they also hop down onto the old bottle and peck their way through the foil and 'ave a little sip of the cream floating on the top. An' we always thought it was the cat that got the cream eh? So I says to her "Why don't you put a yoghurt pot over the top or something?" and she says " I haven't got the heart." I guess that's why she always give me a cuppa, just can't resist giving the early birds a little drink. So I had a brew, dropped off her post, talked about the weather, dried off a bit, and got out for another soaking.

After posting a few more letters next on the tea list was No.21 Mrs Green. And when I rolled up at her house it was shocking it was, there was mess everywhere like. So before going in I says to her " What's been at your rubbish, looks like a fox or something?" "No," she says, "it's those blasted crows, clever little buggers they are. You won't see them all week until I put the rubbish out, and then they swoop in like a plague of locusts." Like flies on shit I was thinking. I like Mrs Green's house though, it's real traditional like, little pieces of England all over the place, right down to them funny white doilies on the back of the chair. The mantel piece is packed full of photos. You know them old ones where everyone looks serious and the edges are all fuzzy. One of them's a picture of her husband like, he was a little piece of England that's still left in France somewhere. They gave him a cross like but they never found him. It would've probably been like trying to remake a cow from meat in the Butchers. She never married again, but she does 'ave nice tea, she has that Lady Jane Grey stuff which has what you might call, a nice aroma.

When I left No.21 it was still raining so I pulled me hood up, not that it really did much good. No.54 is Mrs Johnson's house. She's nice enough but she is, how can I put it, a bit prim. I've never been in her house 'cos it's got a porch so we always 'ave a natter with me in the porch and her leaning on the door frame. An' so she's leaning there, and tells me that the funniest thing's been going on. Her Gerald's got a way with the birds she says. I's thinking a few years ago I was the same mate, down the town on a Saturday night with me blue suede shoes! But as it turns out she reckons that he can talk to them! "Get out! No way!" I says.

Well it happened that a few nights back he was outside and he was practising making owl noises, ta-wit-ta-wooing with his hands like. Then she said when he stopped an owl answered back! So he started again, and then the owl answered again, like a conversation! She said it had been going on for more than a week. Well I didn't know what to say really. I couldn't dispute it like. If that's what she said happened, it happened. Who am I to say? It did strike me a bit odd though being able to talk to birds an' that. So I paid my dues and got on me way.

The final tea stop on Pilkington is a bit of a funny one. Like I said it ain't all about 'ousewives 'cos two doors up from Mrs Johnson's is like Mr Peters at No. 58. He's a nice bloke but he's a bit soft like. His Mrs goes to work at an office in town, one of them power women, I ain't ever met her though. Mr Peters always wears them big woolly jumpers, a bit earthy like, an' he stays at home. He's a painter see, he does like, views and that. Thems alright, but they're a bit funky. I mean I like a picture of a tree to look like a tree, but his don't. They look like green blobs on sticks. Then I don't know nothing about art like so I just say, "That's real good Mr Peters."

Anyway as it turned out a funny thing's been happening to him an all. The other night he was out tending his tomatos or something and he says he hears this owl call. He said he thought it was a bit funny 'cos it went on a bit longer than they usually do like. So anyway he says to me it made him remember how at school he used to be able to make owl noises with his hands, so right there an' then, after twenty years, he gave it a go, and to his surprise he could still do it! But to top it all as he was staring down at his hands, hardly being able to believe that they was the same ones as what he had when he was a kid, the owl answered back! Ta-wit-ta-woo like! So then he said he got right into it like and starts having a conversation like, with the other owl! Well at that point I'd heard enough. It didn't take no Sherlock Holmes to work out what was going on there. I didn't have the heart to say, so I made my excuses and left.

Outside it was still raining but I didn't see it 'cos I had a ray of sunshine in my head. I could just see it, Mr Peters in his woolly jumper Ta-wit-ta-wooing for the first time in 20 years, answering Gerald, Mrs Johnson's other half, two doors up, Both of them outside, revelling in the marvels of nature like!

It set me thinking though, it might be difficult to see the arse of bird, but it's clear as day where the arse of humanity is. Still, I put me best foot forward so as to get home, nice and dry, and out the rain.

Submitted by Nicholas Prothero