sometimes life throws a newspaper at your car

I had been lamenting a time when I had time. I call it lamenting but it would have equated to a mere flashing thought amongst a constant stream of thoughts that I have lately.

I had just dropped off my little Bean at preschool and returned to my car. While starting the engine a car came to idle up beside me. The newspaper delivery guy was passing through. I can wait, I thought.

Next thing, he threw a newspaper smack-bang at the side of my car! Not skimming the roof of my car, or brushing past lightly, but an almighty thud right into the side of my car.

As he drove forward slightly he passed by the bewildered expression on my face. Face to face. I saw his humoured embarrassment and he saw my face move through surprise then confused delight. I waited for him to get out of the car, bend down and reposition the newspaper in a more compliant delivery location. But he didn’t.

He edged his car forward, made a 4 point u-turn and threw a newspaper at a parked car on the other side of the road. Thud. It fell to the roadside.

I don’t blame him for feeling exhausted (in his right arm) by the daunting task of throwing hundreds of newspapers out of his car window. And I’m sure the requirements of the job of newspaper delivery are very specific, “newspapers deliveries: Must be made on the driveway, not in the garden; Must avoid puddles; Must avoid pedestrians; Must avoid parked cars…” rules ,rules, rules. Sometimes, when you haven’t got time for bending over, the rules are for bending.

So what’s this got to do with my time? Well, had I rushed off, in my usual distracted, hurried fashion, I would have missed this opportunity to share faces with the newspaper delivery man.

Sometimes you’ve got to wait, while life throws a newspaper at your car, to remember that precious moments (and newspapers) come to those that are there to receive them (on the road).

Newspaper Delivery



the postman only comes once

The postman brings out one’s Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder tendencies.

Unlike the garbage collection man, the postman runs to his own watch. He might be passing through in the morning but most likely it will end up being after lunch. Sometimes it’s closer to 3pm. And he will only come once. Much to the distress of the house-bound, mail-gathering, expectant, online-shopping 21st centurian. (I know that’s not a word, but I’m making it one.)

We are becoming so used to the immediacy of the internet to communicate. To share. To chat. To buy. The internet brings us mail at all times of day and night. I’m not dissing the postie here. I appreciate the day in day out consistency of the mail service. At times I’m also genuinely concerned for his safety.

His, or her for that matter, little bike is ideal for riding the footpath. Hopping the gutter. Skidding out on the lawn by the verge. In fact, the postie is the grown up professional equivalent of a skateboarding hoodlum. With that fluoro all-weather outfit, backpack full of other peoples stuff and his ‘go anywhere’ attitude.

But I fear for the poor postie’s life when he hits the highway! I mean, really, that thing barely goes more than 50 km per hour. He’s playing with fire. The world is rushing past and he’s there, hanging on for dear life. Flat stick, metal to the floor. He’s giving it all he’s got. He’s more exposed out there than a bug in the lights of a lorrie!

Our generation could be the last to experience the postie in all his fluoro glory. We may be the last to look through the window, expectantly, repeatedly. We may be last to witness his (or her) gutter jumping aerial manoeuvres. Take note, fellow online-shopping postal service watchers, as we witness the transformation of the letter delivering postie into The Package Delivery Man.

I’m quite fond of skateboarders and don’t really think they are all hoodlums that have other people’s stuff. In fact, I’ve found, aside from all their gutter jumping, they are actually some of our societies most grounded people. Perhaps it’s got to do with the frequency at which they come in contact with it.