Return to sender: going back to the Post Office

I’ve been freelance for the last year. As free as a lance. Unshackled from the nine to five like a retired Dolly Parton.

I embarked on my new lifestyle with high hopes. I expected to see out the tail-end of my twenties in a whirlwind of travel and partying. Maybe I’d go to France and spend my days going to the library and the swimming pool because those are the only things I can say in French.

As it turned out, the freelance lifestyle enabled me to indulge the worst of my introverted tendencies.

I’d always suspected that if I didn’t have to talk to anyone I wouldn’t, and I was proved completely right. I’d go for days without saying a word, speaking at the wrong volume when I eventually did because I was so out of practice.

I became a recluse. During the week I spent in bed watching Narcos and Fauda on Netflix, I encountered more Spanish, Arabic and Hebrew than English. My only social interactions were with my clients via Skype. So much so that I came to regard traditional speaking as a bizarre and antiquated form of mouth-Skyping.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I’ve returned to The Galleries Post Office. (Actually that’s the entire story. There are no car chases or weightlifting montages that I’ve decided to leave out. The company’s selection process isn’t as intense as it was back in 2013.)

I’m amazed at how little has changed. A few days ago I was awoken by an alarm that was still saved on my phone. I put on the same uniform, bought the same coffee and waltzed in like I’d never left.

My co-workers seemed glad to see me, even though this is the third time I’ve left and returned. I’m very much the boy who cried self-employment at this point.

I’m happy to be back. I almost can’t remember why I left. I think that the younger me saw the job as a hindrance to his big dreams of comedy stardom, but these days I’m more realistic about the odds of that happening.

This sounds negative but it’s really something I’m quite happy about. Realising that I’ll probably never be a famous comedian, as well as realising that in the current world of Twitter pile-ons and celebrity shaming, fame is not a thing anybody in their right mind should strive for, has allowed me to see my job for what it is: a relatively enjoyable way to make money whilst also feeling like part of the community.

Also, I like the fact that having a uniform means that I don’t have to cope with the mental strain of choosing an outfit every day. Wearing the same clothes constantly is the secret of all high-achievers. That’s why Bart Simpson was so successful. And, to a lesser extent, Steve Jobs.

(They both did well but there’s no song called Do the Jobs-Man is there? Although that’s probably the phrase he used to delegate work to his employees in the early days of Apple.)

Best of all, all of my favourite pensioners seem to have survived. Miraculously, the year that claimed Don Rickles, Mary Tyler Moore and Bill Paxton seems to have left the elderly of Bristol completely unscathed. I returned to work on a Monday morning and, as the regulars trickled in one by one, I felt a huge sense of relief.

I never knew three-quarters of my own grandparents, and the fourth died when I was 13. Now, at the age of 28, I have more surrogate grandparents than you can shake £164.35 at. Hands were shaken, biscuits were exchanged, and a general consensus was reached that I am a nice young man.

The only downside is the heat. Working from home allowed me to spend hot days shirtless in my bedroom with a fan trained on me, occasionally eating grapes like a Roman emperor. Sadly, Post Office health and safety policy forbids me from recreating this at my desk.

If I didn’t wear a shirt I’d have nowhere to put my name badge and the only option would be to pierce one of my nipples. This is a minor concern though. Summer will be over soon and I’ll still be a postal worker.

Come in and say hello if you’re in town. I’ll be the nice young man surrounded by pensioners, trying desperately to speak at the right volume.