The ostman
By Primal Sneeze ~ September 23rd, 2008. Filed under: Characters, Friends, Local.
You’ve probably realised from the title and some previous stories that I take the P out of the postman quite a bit. Sometimes I get the upper hand, sometimes I don’t.
Why is that? you may ask. Well, I may tell you, we grew up together and have been playing practical jokes on each other since we could walk and slagging each other since we could talk.
I was invited to his wedding. A blacktie affair the invitation said. Well it was for me and no one else. I stood out like a right dick in my monkey suit. I got him back for that the week he came home from the honeymoon - he came out one morning to find “Just Married” sprayed on the post van in shaving foam and a clatter of tins cans tied to the back. He was half way through his round when someone pointed out the banner trailing from the aerial - “I got my first ride”.
For months now he’s been at me to put a postbox at the entrance. For months now I’ve been putting it off just to bug him.
I relented last week and bought one. But I couldn’t hang it on my own, so I figured who better to help me than the man who would use it most. On Friday he held it while I bolted it on. He even got to pick the spot it went. I thanked him most profusely: That’s grand. You won’t be coming into the yard annoying me now.
Yesterday I seen him pass by the window. A knock on the door. I ignored it. He came to the window.
Open the door, ya bollix ya.
How do I know it’s you?
You can see me, for feck sake.
Not good enough. Have you ID? And anyway, the postman always knocks twice.
He knocked on the door again and I opened it.
Would ya not use that grand postbox I bought ya?
I have a parcel. Won’t fit. Why didn’t ya get a decent size one?
Me? Me? You’re blaming me? Shur it was you put it up.
I did not. You did.
No I didn’t. As sure as the dog’s me witness, I seen ya. I was standing there right beside ya on when you put it up. Not my fault you put up a box that’s too small.
I noticed something protruding for the box later. He’d gone and stuffed it full of advertising leaflets.
I left them in it. We’ll see what happens today.
I think we also have crazy and annoying postmen/women around here. There’s two front doors on most of houses on my street, and leaflet delivery people always put one in the bottom door, and another one in the top door - even thought both doors clearly have the same number on them!
Around here, generally, it’s not the postpersons who stuff the mailboxes with so much advertising stuff, but mostly people who get paid bugger all for walking for miles and delivering loads of junk mail.
Don’t complain, at least you have an ostman with a sense of humour, whether it be warped or not.
You could leave a hard copy of your blog in the post box for him to read and maybe a comment form. “Ah if it isn’t yerself postie”
I posted my comment in the mail box, off you go to the gate and get it!
@TheChrisD - I likes my ostman, I does. He’s my buddy from childhood.
@Gaye - Actually I don’t get independent post-spam at all - just what the ostman brings.
Oh, and his humour is no more warped than mine. I probably warped him if the truth be told.
@Quickroute - There. Done. Not that he can read or anything. [Got him with that bit, huh]
@Grannymar - Fek! The lock’s been Superglued.
Am I right in thinking that Oxmantown Road is derived from Ostman… which has some obscure Viking/Norse meaning from when Dublin was known as Black Pool?
Well, if you can’t have a bit of fun with the postman…
Our sweet little old man of a postman disappeared. I hope he’s retired and not dead.
@Conan Drumm - Ah yes, the legendary “mail men of the north”. That’s when postmen were postmen; when you could sent a letter to Black Pool and be certain it wouldn’t end up in England.
@Deborah - Well I can’t say for certain, but I’m sure I read somewhere that An Post insist you retire when you die. Seems a bit harsh to me but there you go - that’s the civil service for you.
@Primal Sneeze - Mail men from the East, surely? They couldn’t be having with those Gaelic Hurdles just west of the Black Pool.
Can’t remember whether they were blond foreigners from Fingal or Black Foreigners like our former pole topping Tanist.
At least your post turns up sooner or later.
*goes off to sulk, muttering loudly*
Love it! I have no idea who my postperson is. They come anytime between ten in the morning and six in the evening. I do know though that a few years back the post office here wouldn’t allow the postmen wear shorts even though the weather was ridiculously hot. They were told they could only wear the regulation uniform so in a protest they did wear the regulation uniform - for women and went about in skirts. Much cooler apparently. Priceless
@aonghus - Blue ones from Morocco?
Oh, and I didn’t know she did the pole dancing thing.
@Caro - Valentine’s Day stuff gone missing again? That always amazes me - they never lose
blow up dollsbills.@Conortje - O Críost ar rothar! I love that. The concept mind, not the mental image of my own ostman in a skirt. Thought that’d be a picture.
@Primal Sneeze - She? Is there something about Michael the blond son of the black foregner I don’t know?
Ní hionann fear dubh agus fear gorm, dála an scéal.
One of the things I wanted to be when I was wee was a postlady. But the sort with a sack and went on foot or a bicycle, not the sort with a van. I still think in a town or a village, it would be a nice life.
@aonghus - She is a she. Or a woz at least. Doesn’t she whinge when upset.
@problemchildbride - You still can. Live the dream, girl. Live the American dream. With determination and hard work even a lowly president can one day be postman.
Right at the moment it’s more of an American waking nightmare over here. What a fucking mess.
@problemchildbride - Well it ain’t all that hot here either.