The Scanner Squilled

Today I was walking up Ne’erdowell Terrace, adorned in a vest, company t-shirt, fleece, windcheater, scarf, thermal undies, trousers, waterproof overtrousers, two pairs of socks and two pairs of gloves…plus a woolly hat.

It was minus bastard degrees celsius and about 2/3 of the way through my shift. My Walk (what we call a postie’s area of delivery) is in one of the more horrid areas of town, populated by scumbags who think nicking mail is something the Jobcentre forced them to do for failing to find them work. As a result the trolley (bikes now a thing of a bygone era…unless you live in Angola which is where Royal Mail shipped them all to) has to be taken into the numerous blocks of flats so I don’t find the wheels missing and the smouldering, skeletal remains smelling of paraffin when I return from the pissy stench of Tulip Heights’ 19 floors.

While soldiering on at around 2pm I heard an odd noise. It was an ascending tone that echoed away at the end, and a few seconds later picked up again.

Kind of pretty.

I realised after the 3rd squill that this was coming from somewhere about my person. As my phone has the theme from Skyfall as the ringtone I was at a loss as to what it was. Unzipping the 3 separate zips I grummaged around the humid internal pockets of the fleece to retrieve my scanner which was making the odd noise.

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Staring at the screen a message was on it stating “incoming call.”

Somewhat scared I looked at the buttons and lo and behold there was a phone icon on one of them. Pushing it I raised the scanner to my icy ear. 

“Hello?”

“Err…hello is Gloria there?” said a very geriatric voice.

“Sorry think you’ve got a wrong number my love. This is a postman’s parcel scanner you’ve phoned.”

A long pause.

“John, stop being silly. Put Gloria on!” she croaked a bit on the last couple of syllables.

“Like I told you love, you’ve got a wrong number. I’m a postie, you’ve called my packet scanner!

Another long pause…then.

“Oh very funny! You like taking the piss out of me don’t you John, YOU LITTLE SHIT! *CLICK!!!*

Turns out the scanner has a Sim card in it, that I wasn’t trained on the presence of, never mind the usage of. Concerned the local chavs would mistake the scanner for a smartphone and mug me for it, I put it back in the folds of my onion-esque layers and carried on. Only witnesses to this rather odd conversation were two teenage girls in tiny skirts and crop tops, smoking fags outside no. 27. Least someone’s mum doesn’t let them stink up the house with nicotine, even if she does let them dress like tarts when it’s below zero. 

Hope they had knickers on.

 

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