A very Bristolian emergency

As I’ve mentioned previously, I work in a Post Office. This is not the same as being a postman. I don’t get to wear shorts and I’m more likely to be bitten by a customer than a dog. (It says “please don’t lean through the gap” for a reason). After two and a half years I’m still not sure what my job is actually called. Post Officer sounds like I should have a badge and a gun. Post Office Person sounds like I just hung around the building until they got uncomfortable and started paying me (actually not far from the truth.) If I had it my way it would be Postmonger because, like most -monger jobs, I use my hands a lot and often go home smelling unpleasant.

I love my job, whatever it’s called. Sticking on stamps is something I never get bored of. It’s like trying to complete a never-ending Panini sticker album in a world where only The Queen is allowed to play football. I also relish the chance to talk to our regular customers,  who are some of my favourite people in the world.  One lady has discovered that I’m a comedian and now tries to tell me a joke whenever I serve her. She almost succeeded last time. 

“My dog’s got no nose”                                                                                                                                                              
“What’s he like then?”
“He smells terrible.” 

So close.

I recently served an older customer who pointed to the front page of his Daily Mail and declared that “You’re not safe anywhere these days”. I rarely agree with Daily Mail readers. I tend to think that using the Daily Mail to back up an argument is a bit like using Pokemon cards to back up a job application. I felt sorry for him though. I could see why an older person could feel vulnerable in light of various recent news events and I wanted to reassure him that things would be ok. But I didn’t know what to say. In the end I panicked and tried to sell him some home insurance which, in hindsight, was probably not the best way to ease his paranoia. 

This week I saw him again and, as he was waiting in the queue, the lights went off and an announcement came over The Galleries’ PA system. “Please evacuate the building immediately. This is an emergency.”  The Galleries is not used to such dramatic scenes. We’ve been fairly quiet ever since they installed Wi-fi a couple of months ago, making it easier than ever for customers to look up directions to Cabot Circus. Joey Essex attracted a large crowd when he visited last year, but mainly because he was blocking the entrance to Bargain Buys.

As we filed out of the Galleries, I caught the man’s eye and he gave me a look as if to say, “You see? You’re not safe anywhere these days.”

We milled around outside waiting for news. The lady from Gregg’s said that Kevin from Burger King had told her that we couldn’t go back in for at least 2 hours. It was unclear whether Kevin was a Burger King employee or merely an enthusiast, but it was the only information we had to go on. It was a lovely day (or a KILLER HEATWAVE if you believe my customer’s newspaper of choice), so I bought a baguette and went to sit in Castle Park with my colleagues.

Despite the confusion as to what had happened to warrant the evacuation, the nice weather and the unexpected time off work put everyone in a good mood. The park took on a strange festival vibe, like Glastonbury for low-end retail workers. Someone started playing the guitar and a guy who may or may not have been from WHSmith took his shirt off. I half expected the staff from the 99p store to whip out a hacky sack.

After a while, word came through that the power cut and subsequent evacuation had been the result of an innocent power surge. I looked around for my customer so I could be the one to tell him that nothing bad had happened, but he was nowhere to be seen. As I scanned the park, a seagull swooped down and stole the baguette right out of my hand.

You’re not safe anywhere these days.