“Here we go – deliver as many as you can,” offers the Village Shop Man.
I have a job!!! It is voluntary work for the Village Shop. I have always thought that I would do some service in the community, even on top of the good works I do at the Snooker Club. My mother helps the RNLI, and even John Twonil drives the Community Bus, although I am not going to write about that any more as he got cross because I have never mentioned the at least five or six times when he has been out in it and it has not been stolen and the police called.
I walk round the Village, delivering leaflets.
I had forgotten quite how nice it is to go for a walk. Delivering leaflets is a refreshingly mindless pastime; the satisfaction of doing a good deed for the Village Shop people is matched only by the satisfaction of the ‘clunk’ of a letterbox as another leaflet goes down. Plus you get to nose around peoples’ gardens, especially if the letterbox is not immediately visible which gives you the excuse to go round the back. There are some cottages that I didn’t even know existed, and really terrible three-piece suites in some living rooms. I stroll around with a song in my heart, doing my good turn.
It starts to sleet.
Going for a walk in the sleet is invigorating. I push a soggy leaflet through another letterbox. The next cottage does not have a visible means of delivery, but there is a pheasant hanging up on the back gate, so I tuck it into that. Then up the track that leads across the field opposite the farm.
It is snowing very hard now.
It really is immensely enjoyable walking around in such conditions, having been sent out to deliver leaflets without being supplied with the appropriate footwear by my employer. But what can I do? I would not claim against the Village Shop, and let some dodgy ‘claims company’ take a cut of my compensation.
I leave the rest of the leaflets at Eddie’s, who has promised to help me out. The Village Shop man gives me two jars of pickle. Later on, I overhear two ladies in the Post Office discussing my leafleting activities. I am full of pride.
I’m really proud of you Jonny. I knew you had it in you. We should all try to emulate our mothers. I would heap more praise but want to avoid and any risk of your perfectly normal sized head getting – God forbid – any larger.
I am shocked to the very core…
Nothing quite compares to the taste of scorched leaflet when tucking into a nice roasted pheasant, I’ve found.
Good job on the gainful employment front, Jonny, and lord knows we all could use a bit more pickle in our lives, but seriously…how would you like it if you woke up to find one of your chooks choking on the Daily Mail?
No, my chickens do not get the Daily Mail, as they do not have a letterbox. Big A’s have the Mail delivered, plus ‘Newsweek’ and occasional copies of ‘New Scientist’.
So how many leaflets did you actually deliver Jonny?
Erm. Where, exactly, did you tuck that pamphlet into the pheasant? Or is pheasant one of those amusing Norfolk dialect words meaning letter-bag or rucksack or something? Because… well… just because really.
I notice you do not actually tell us what the leaflets say, Jonny. You’re not one of those celebrity BNPers, are you, falling in with a bunch of rural cranks and stuffing poorly-mimeographed tracts about Jewish bankers through the letterbox when all decent folk are out doing real jobs?
I always feared that the crippling social isolation of your pointless existence would get to you eventually. Never thought it would end with you stuffing “Wogs Out Monthly” up a pheasant’s bum, tho’. Snap out of it, my boy! Go back to the Book Club before it’s too late. Better Oprah’s latest chick-lit hits than this…
Wait until Servalan starts school and you are persuaded to become a School Governor. Then you’ll know what voluntary work is all about.
Are you a British volunteer?
We don’t want the locals going on strike if you are an incomer and taking volunteering away from local volunteers!
Pheasants are employed on roads throughout rural Norfolk to test drivers’ reactions.
They wait on the verges until you’re almost upon them, then do a chicken run right across your path.
This is a fairly risky occupation and many perish under the wheels of the many 4x4s and Volvos hurtling down our leafy lanes.
Occasionally, they get their own back – in a posthumous sort of way – by leaving dents in the front of less solidly-built cars such as the small hatchbacks which abound on pension day.
Understandable many locals resent these incomers’ efforts to make them swerve or brake sharply, so shooting parties are organised so tweed-clad green welly wearing drivers can extract bloody revenge on pheasantdom.
Jobs are vastly overrated, in my opinion. At my own job, I prefer to walk around at a very fast pace, clipboard and pencil in hand. I look extremely busy, so nobody actually questions me as to what exactly I am doing. So far, I’m still getting paid.
Oh god, you are have turned into one of those junk-mail distributors. Can you buy stickers in England to put on your post box that say “No Publicity” or something? If so, can you get them in Norfolk?
‘Hawkers Will Be Shot’ sign – is a useful door addition.
I personally, put the recycling bin in front of the sign. Cuts out the middleman.
Dare we ask which song was in your heart?
One used to be able to buy signs which said: ‘No hawkers or pedlars.’
‘If I could catch the bugger who keeps spamming my letter box with leaflets I would rip…’
‘What?’
‘Oh!’
No it was ‘No hawkers or circulars.’ Carry on.
Did you tuck the leaflet aaall the way into the pheasant? Suppose it’s cooked without the leaflet being discovered? Then those poor folks will never know what was written on that leaflet.
Your new job is obviously keeping you very busy
look, we’ve all got jobs, sunshine, but we don’t ignore our friends because of them!! lol
A philanthropic man of many talents…I’m in admiration.