Going postal

As I hinted earlier I'm supposed to write on my essay today. It just so happens that I have not written a single word of it as of yet. I have not really read a single word of research for writing it either. Nevertheless I am writing this. It proves one time for all that it's not the act of writing that is repulsing, it all has to do with what you write about and even more important, what motivates you (or not) to write. This isn't really news, but you remember that smart-ass chick back at school who hated and subsequently failed all the essays she was given, claiming she didn't like to (or actually all together could not) write, while she wrote more text messages than the rest of the class added up as well as being a notorious starter of chain e-mails. While she was unable to write about the history of literature, she could easily think of a couple of hundred things that would happen to you if you do not send the email on to so and so many people. 

Anyway, I bought a russian viewfinder (with meter) for my precious hassie off of ebay. The cool thing about the british postal service is that they bring the packages to your door (that doesn't happen a lot in Norway), the not so cool thing about it is that if you're not there when they try to deliver it you have one week to hit the post office and pick it up. Seems fair enough. Except the post office is open from 7am to 2pm mon-fri and 7am to 1pm on Saturday. I can see how some people might find it troublesome to get there within those times, and if you don't make it..? Well it's all shipped off back to the sender (in my case: Russia). Not so much fun.

I had one thing to do this Saturday, that was getting the package. I was fully aware of the opening hours, but nevertheless I managed to only get out about half past twelve. I found the (rather out of the way) post office at 12.45 (having taken a 90p bus ride some enormous two stops - I was in a hurry!) and I knew it might be ambitious to think that I'd get the package within those 15 minutes. There was a queue. Fucking big one too. Out of the packed post office, out on the parking lot thingy and onto the actual road outside.

Ironically this made me get my hopes up. The mere fact that all those people still bothered to stand there had to mean either that:

the queue was moving fast

or

the nice postal service people would finish the people in the queue even after 1 o'clock.

No such luck. The queue moved fast enough, in fact just fast enough for me to get into the office at pretty exactly 1 o'clock. This was, however, also the time when the guys behind the tills basically just bailed. They turned around and left. I think it is fair to say that people did not particularly care for just this. In fact, one of the bitter old women in the crowd (probably picking up some rubbish mail order stuff that she never in her years alive would even have anywhere near her house, at least without christmas wrappings. And which she intended to give to her closest friends for christmas, while complaining loudly over the rubbish presents she'd get in return) started yelling at a rather generous-figured postal employee. Something along the lines of "If you got of your fat bottom and got behind the tills we would have all gotten our packages today!". As much as I admire her ability to address figures of authority in such a sweet, sensible way, I must admit I was doubtful of the effect it would have had to have another guy behind the tills. I would also suggest that maybe he had being doing something else, maybe even something important.

Then all hell broke lose (not really, maybe some of it though). A guy standing startlingly close to me started pounding his fist into the air shouting "WE WANT SERVICE!" repeatedly in the way they shout slogans in bad movies about strikes from the nineties. The only problem was that at first no one really joined in (I suspect because they were having the same associations as me) but after some three solitary shouts people chimed in, at which point I left. My efforts only brought me there 15 minutes before closing time, and as much as I'd like to join the fist-pounding and repeated shouting thing I had to appreciate that this just wasn't my battle. Best of luck to the others though. The whole situation really made me realize how good the expression 'Going postal' actually is. I was ignorant of the way the postal service really works. Next time I go there (tomorrow probably) I'll bring some spiked bats and a gas mask.

Maybe I'll try writing/reading something about Duchamp now (for my essay), or maybe I'll just skip the ambitiously optimistic pretending and realize that it will indeed not happen today. Whatsoever.