Best Foot Backwards

I didn’t think the dog bite was all that serious, but the anally retentive line-manager demanded that I go and get a tetanus jab or something. According to him, if I didn’t do this within the next 24 hours or so, my leg would turn gangrenous, my head would implode and Christmas would be cancelled.
There’s something about a Royal Mail uniform that drives a domesticated animal (dog, overly-amorous housewife) into such a frenzy. And not a good kind of frenzy either.
Despite these minor hiccups I can honestly say that living the life of a postman is probably the easiest thing I have ever done. A semi-literate baboon or even a Big Brother contestant could work for Royal Mail. In fact there are weeks where I actually earn more money delivering letters than I did while working as a member of the fourth estate. Go figure!Am I happy? Not really.
As a postie I often feel that I am now destined to walk Dumbing Down Street for the rest of my life. Almost as if any ambitions I may have fostered for the future died on the day I first put on the navy blue uniform. There are so many things I still want to achieve. Things I want to accomplish. Every year I make the same resolution – to finish 'White Trash', a novel that I have been working on since my school-going days. I also have a brilliant idea for a sitcom and to this end have invested in a mini library of books detailing the scriptwriting process.
So why have I failed so spectacularly then? Why I am playing at being Postman Pat rather than churning out Pulitzer-prize winning novels?


I started my “writing career” in 1995 when I said goodbye to the bright lights and big city life of Johannesburg. I was fresh out of Journalism School. For the third and final year of the course, students had to gain practical experience by finding employment with any media organisation for nine months.
Somehow I ended up at The Highveld Herald in Ermelo, a small rural town in Mpumalanga province, South Africa. I don’t know what possessed me. The Herald, a knock-and-drop, has a weekly print order of 17 500 and serves 14 towns and villages. My duties included writing stories on all aspects of community life, taking photos and doing page lay-outs. I was young and idealistic then. I was going to be the next Bob Woodward. Instead of exposing the next Watergate scandal, however, I became the resolute stalwart who religiously attended all of the Ermelo Chess Club’s meetings. Even though I did not enjoy my time in Ermelo (It’s a place where the khaki safari suit will never go out of fashion), I stayed for the next seven years and worked my way up through the ranks to Chief Reporter.


Everything changed about seven years ago when my family and I left Ermelo (finally!) and moved to the United Kingdom. When I arrived in England I surprised everyone – including myself - by landing a job at Surrey Life, one of Archant Life’s 17 titles that reflect the finer aspects of county life. At first the Managing Director of this concern was not convinced that I was the right person for the job. I could see his point. I had only been in the country for two months. During the three life-sapping interviews I had to attend, I somehow managed to allay any fears he may have had. (I basically got down on my hands and knees and begged and pleaded for an opportunity). As Assistant Editor of the magazine I was responsible for the entire running of the editorial department. The job had its perks - I had a company car, snazzy business cards and I got to explore Surrey and meet many interesting people. Horse-racing events, charity fund-raisers, fashion shows, gallery exhibitions...If it happened in the county I was there. Overnight I became a socialite albeit one with a slight guttural South African accent.


It's all very well and good to rub shoulders with the crème de la crème of Surrey society. Yes, I can squeeze into a tux. And yes, I might even be persuaded to comb my hair. The truth is that I felt slightly out of place at some of these functions. Maybe it is because I have the charisma of a wet tea towel. Or perhaps I had formed an emotional attachment to the khaki safari suit after all…


After three years, however, I had had enough. Money – or a lack thereof – did play a role in my decision to finally leave. (I wasn’t joking when I said I earned more working as an “unskilled” labourer). More important was the fact that writing was starting to feel like a chore. It just wasn’t fun anymore. So I left my post…


…and joined the Post Office. I enjoy the job as I get plenty of exercise and fresh air. My colleagues are also some of the most genuine and likeable people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. My delivery takes about three and a half hours to complete and during this time I fine-tune the characters and script for that brilliant BAFTA award-winning sitcom I'm still going to write. I just feel unfulfilled. I know that I am capable of doing more with my life. I don’t know exactly what yet, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve me delivering letters for the rest of my life.
That's why I have decided to start blogging. Forming a habit of writing something, ANYTHING, everyday. And no, that does not include my shopping list. For now, however, I must be content at waking at the crack of dawn so that I can pound the pavements of New Malden.