Post script: the end of an era

Tomorrow is my last day at the Post Office. Exactly six years ago I was called into The Galleries branch in the centre of Bristol for an interview, mostly because my CV contained the words “stand-up comedian” and the company wrongly assumed that this meant I was good with people.

The interview was extremely brief. My future boss asked me to tell him a joke. I said no and was offered the job immediately. Refusing to tell jokes is a great way to win respect in the workplace, so much so that I often use the same technique on stage. Sometimes for months on end.

After landing the job, I was sent for two weeks intensive training in Swindon where I was put up in a Holiday Inn and allowed to have a Wetherspoons dinner every night. In a bizarre plot twist, I had a girlfriend at the time and she came along for a few days. We had a Swindon mini break on the Post Office dime. It really is the Paris of Wiltshire if you ignore Salisbury and don’t know much about Paris.

Looking back on this extravagance, it’s not surprising that the company ran into financial difficulties. Fish and chips doesn’t come cheap. Except on Fish Friday or before 5pm on all other weekdays.

I didn’t take to the job immediately. I was a pretentious young wannabe artist and, despite my best efforts, I’m sure I gave off an air of smugness and disdain. I thought that stamps were beneath me (which is technically true because we store them in a draw at knee-level, leading to a painful condition known in the biz as “Philatelist’s Kneecap.”)

It took me a few months to acclimatise but, slowly but surely, I grew to love the job. I bonded with my colleagues and our customers. I helped a panicking best man to return an SD card full of photos that he’d accidentally stolen from his brother’s wedding. I photographed babies with the help of puppets. I learned that you can’t post bees to Canada but wasps are no problem.

The Post Office in The Galleries will now by in WHSmith

The news of our closure came back in October and was both surprising and completely predictable. For years we’d watched our customer numbers dwindle whilst other branches were moved into WHSmith, the retail equivalent of sending an elderly dog to live on a farm.

This week the end times started in earnest. Builders appeared and began measuring things in a sinister way, like a snake working out if someone is the right size to eat. Lockers were torn from the wall. Pensioners were shaken from sofas. (We got our sofas from the Plymouth branch when it closed a couple of years ago so there is probably an element of karma at play here. Those sofas have been part of so many failing businesses that they’re probably qualified to host The Apprentice by now.)

Sensing a brief window of opportunity, my colleagues and I began laying claim to various items of stationery, electrical equipment, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down (or stuck to an envelope with self-adhesive glue so you don’t have to lick it anymore.) I have been fairly restrained, taking only my name badge and a rather fetching red gilet. Unfortunately the gilet says “Here to Help” on the back which means that its style and comfort are offset by the irritation of constant requests for assistance every time I go into a shop with a vaguely red colour scheme. I’ve stopped telling customers in Wilkinson’s that I don’t work there. It’s easier to just show them where the lightbulbs are.

Working in a closing shop is a strange experience. Since we can’t order any more stock, we’ve been raiding the cupboard for old stamps and labels. Post a letter this week and there’s a good chance that you will receive a stamp commemorating the 2002 Commonwealth Games or the 50th anniversary of Coronation Street, both of which give an unrealistic view of life in Manchester.

The customers have been great. For the most part, they have taken the news harder than we have. They seem genuinely concerned about us and I’ve been asked frequently if I’ll be okay after the closure: “Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan,” I always reply, neglecting to mention that my plan consists of playing Red Dead Redemption Two and growing a big beard.

I’ll be fine though, and I think my colleagues will be too. We’re a resilient bunch with hearts of gold and kneecaps of steel. I never planned to spend most of my 20s working in a Post Office but I can’t say that I regret the decision. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a big day tomorrow. I’m going to finally tell my boss a joke and then steal the laminator while he’s distracted.

Epilogue:

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago but couldn’t publish it until my redundancy was finalised. I lasted less than two weeks before realising that I couldn’t deny my true calling and getting a job at the Post Office in Horfield. I start next week so the race is on to finish Red Dead Redemption before I rejoin the world of work.

Read more: Return to sender: going back to the Post Office