Every job has its own secret language; ours is a world of yorks, of docket, tipping monkeys, fittings and trays. With feet (in regulation boots) planted firmly to fire mail into green plastic slots at 6am, up with the birds, the seagulls that patrol silent streets to tear open bin bags and spill out the guts, the starlings startled from roosting to circle wet rooftops. Up with the crows that hop along the perimeter fencing and flit at the beep of an ID card scan. It’s like walking home from a party but you’re heading for graft, not bed, and the smell of hot coffee from a dispensing machine, and the brightness of strip lights, the duties sheets, the walks, the easy listening tunes on the radio.
Jon Tait is a postal worker and writer from Northumberland who lives in Carlisle. His first full collection Barearse Boy was published by Smokestack.