The Other Side Of A Post Van.

An Illegal Bit On The Side does not always convert well to legal

Aug 20, 2024

Storytelling in the Glasgow.

In an attempt to expand my fiction to storytelling, I went to Glasgow and met with veteran storytellers. Some told stories of ancient times, riddles, and jokes while others told poetry, one even drew us as we performed making me look way better than the mirror.

The storytelling was at the West End Games Cafe and there wasn’t a console in sight, just a cafe full of people happily playing fantasy and board games.

I had no idea such a place existed.

Halfway through the storytelling the owner appeared and pulled out his instrument——couldn’t help but write it like that. It was a reconstructed Irish hurling stick hand-crafted into a string instrument.

And before you ask, hurling has nothing to do with an upset stomach. Hurling as described by Theocho on Reddit….

“is an Irish sport that whimsically combines baseball, hockey, lacrosse, and murder…”

I thought Scottish shinty was dangerous, and women’s Rugby is scary but Hurling is on another level.

I grew up on a sports diet of ‘Aussie rules’ football where footballers kicked a footie in tight shorts, and seventies haircuts, where we women played netball and hookey. Hurling makes Ausie rules look like ballet with a ball and hockey as a twee as well, as women’s netball.

The cafe owner gave us a quick chat about how he discovered the hurling instrument and then played it, his fingers dashing across the strings as quickly as a Hurler ducked the ball.

The music was beautifully folksy.

The plot thickens as we get to know the past, of Rita, Elsa, and the Postman, and here is the third part…you never look at a post van in the same way again…

The Postman Rings As Many Times As You Want- Part Three

The Postman, his hand by his side, forgotten glanced at the love of his life.

She had that look on her face, that look he often saw after a ‘bit of how’s your father’ when he had done his best, pulled out all the stops, and did the impossible…

Delivered first class———on time.

Well, that’s what he liked to call it, making love was such an ordinary turn of phrase and when he called it delivering, it inspired him to well…deliver.

It made the whole in-bed stuff a breeze, like posting a parcel at Christmas time…knocking on the door and asking for a signature.

Arriving on time was a complete doddle to him, in fact, he was so good he often arrived early——which always left her staring out the window with a sigh, like something was missing….and the Postman confused.

Years ago pleasing Rita was a piece of piss, but not now,

She was as easy to understand as her “if you say so” sighs which she often said even when he hadn’t said anything at all.

Her pleasure was as elusive to him as her clitoris, he couldn’t even spell the word, let alone find it.

He was a man of postcodes and vans, addresses and letter boxes.. a man of instant reactions, a man of speed.

His parent didn’t believe in locks or knocking they barged in on him at a moment’s notice with “a tidy this up” or “a have you done your homework” and The Postman had learned to be quick, quiet, and efficient, hiding everything at a moment notice, which was a winner when you're having it off with a married woman, but not so great when you’re living together.

He looked at Rita and wondered, was it the menopause (he could spell that) no babies, the early morning postie shifts, the uniform, his shorts, the ex-postie van he’d done up as a camper van which he thought was a winner, would remind her of the days of illicit sex in the co-op car park.

She said it was like humping on a trailer or worse a bus shelter.

He watched as Rita lifted the bath mat limply from the window ledge.

“Here let me.” She said with a look he hadn’t seen since the days of illegal sex.

She folded it on the table like it was a newborn.

The postman sighed if only she touched him like that.

Not that Kenny noticed but then did he ever?

He never noticed when Rita was cheating on him, even when she arrived home with a Her Majesty’s service imprinted on her thighs- a rather rushed job in the van that involved the mass destruction of several voting leaflets-but that’s another story.

The poster sighed what he wouldn’t give for a rushed job just now.

He stared at Kenny stripped to his waist, his long Johns flapping about his nether regions like a tent in the wind, screaming there was something better underneath…and you’ll never know.

Did he have any long johns?

He looked at Rita, maybe that was the problem maybe he should consider delivering second class, perhaps in a set of long johns.

Maybe there was a pair in the Red Cross shop…