Dry Thoughts in a Wet Season

I’ve lost my job at the post office. Ironically they notified me by letter. As you will have gathered, Ray with his lobster claw managed to get us both locked up in a detention centre near Dover for the best part of a week. I can’t say it hasn’t been fun. We talked some rubbish and became better friends. I find it hard to get angry with Ray especially now he’ll never play the piano again; not that he could before. You may have noticed I ramble a bit. That’s what I do, that’s why I loved my job. All that wandering about being nosey. I like sauntering round the housing estates in the evenings smelling what everyone’s having for their dinner. A good curry, cheap fish, spaghetti Bolognese – heavy on the garlic, they way I like it.

<>I like being on the outside looking in. Watching mum in the kitchen preparing tea whilst the kids play tug of war with a video game controller. The occasional glimpse of towel and flesh before the bathroom light goes off. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prowler, I just like being in the empty streets imagining the conversations going on inside. As a kid I used to imagine that there would be a virus that would wipe out most of the world’s population. Those of us who lived would be left to pile up the dead in lower league football stadiums. Some would clear down the motorways and race round the country in supercars. Others would fly helicopters and bomb new towns in military jets. Some would leave for sunnier shores in luxury gin palaces. I on the other hand would investigate peoples lives, search through their houses and their secrets. Find out what was really going on.

I’ve always thought that there is a fine line between wasting your time and biding your time. I am almost certainly biding. The fact that I am largely an itinerant kind of person is why I rarely shave, wash my poodle head, and seldom answer letters from the bank. It’s why I hated being locked this week and it’s made me start to re-think what I’m doing with my life. A postman rethinking his place in the world, there’s ironic. That’s why people become postmen generally isn’t it? People who can’t hack it in the real world whatever that is. Whilst we were locked up, Ray and I chatted; more than we ever have. We established that in many ways Ray and I are very similar. Unsurprisingly, it interested me more than him; I am the one who does the talking and the majority of the thinking. To me Ray is like a shadow, he exists on some levels and on others he just fades away. We are two relatively young men with no clue about what to do with their lives. We were never trained to do anything in particular. We had no strong role models for fathers; no-one telling us to go get a trade, be a fireman, learn a language, help others less fortunate than ourselves. It’s a Thatcherite thing I guess. When everyone was busy making good for themselves, people like me and Ray couldn’t be especially arsed. Neither of us own a house, neither of us want to, truth be told. Money means about as much to me as marmalade although I can’t really say the same for Ray and that’s why I’ve never entirely trusted him, well his judgement anyway.

<>It’s easy to look at me and assume that because I don’t particularly care for my appearance that I don’t care for myself and I therefore don’t care for other people. A lot of people make that mistake. Take Mrs Williams for example, how could anyone not care for someone so sweet and so deluded? The old chap in the High St, Mr Konstantin, a lovely old man although saying that, I’m not sure I could bring myself to wipe their arses when they can no longer reach around for themselves.

It’s not that I’ve done nothing with my life and I don’t want make apologies for not making the most of things in general. It’s just that this morning I watched an old lady in the street. She was moving at the speed of slug in treacle, uphill into an oncoming wind and I just thought; I never want to be like that. I then wondered at what age you decide that the ‘plastic bag on the head,’ is a good look? Perhaps I do find it hard to empathise? Empathy is, I suppose ultimately a selfish response to someone else’s hardship. You can ooh and ah all you like but really, you’re thinking, “You poor bastard, I’m glad that’s not me.”

You know, despite the fact that this country is so allegedly small and jam-packed, I see very little evidence of this outside the cities. At night and in the early mornings, the streets are deserted. I sometimes think we could double our population and set-up a nightshift and a dayshift. People used to look at me when I was on my round as I trudged about in the pissing rain and the autumn gales and think “You poor bastard, I’m glad that’s not me.” I used to watch them get into their company cars waving at their company wives in their company houses and think “You poor bastard, I’m glad that’s not me.” Anyone who tells you that empathy is one of our more endearing human traits is sorely mistaken. If we were capable of true empathy, war, suffering and daytime television would be a thing of the past.

Now this neatly brings me back to Ray. I don’t feel sorry for him, we do have things in common but it’s not the same as empathy. Mates don’t feel empathy just mateship. I know Ray doesn’t treat Beth the way that she deserves to be treated considering what she does for him, but it’s hard for me to say as much. If there is one thing I categorically deplore about Ray it is this and as his mate it is my solemn duty to say nothing on the subject.