Once again with songs of joy playing in their heads and soaking into every sinew in their being, they raise an imaginary toast and launch themselves on the road to perdition, the well worn path to CMC.
Once on the workfloor the unfortunate wretches, ultimately doomed to a working life of mindless repetition, burrow deep into their mail sorting cubicles, only stirring when the barked orders of the supervisor are unleashed against them and they gaze out at their tormenters with wide eyed bewilderment like nocturnal critters woken from their slumber.
They scurry, to and fro, wherever they may be needed while the long hours pass minute by minute, the monotony lashing them until at last they break the self imposed discipline and pause, chatting to their mates, refreshing their minds and taking a moment to remember that the torture of the day won’t last forever.
They glance furtively, left and right while they talk lest the heavy hand of authority strike without warning, reducing them to contemplating their mundane duties in silence, all fun and life sucked from them and reducing their mortal recepticles to almost sub-human husks.
Now, gaze fixed forward, almost comatose with concentration, tunnel vision guiding their forward traction, they move on the mail. Wave after wave dispatched with barely a bead of sweat falling from their furrowed brows.
Hour after hour they grind along oblivious to the rest of the world that exists outside the walls and away from the unnatural light to which they are captive.
Finally, long after darkness has fallen and the rest of the world have taken their leave and retired for the night, the relief that comes from the smallest of sounds, the chimes of a clock, releases them, setting them free to find their way home, away from the rigours of daily toil to the comfort of bed and refreshment of sleep.
Only then can they lay the demons of the day to rest and only the thoughts of doing it all again tomorrow haunt their dreams.
Such is the life of the mail sorter.
Once on the workfloor the unfortunate wretches, ultimately doomed to a working life of mindless repetition, burrow deep into their mail sorting cubicles, only stirring when the barked orders of the supervisor are unleashed against them and they gaze out at their tormenters with wide eyed bewilderment like nocturnal critters woken from their slumber.
They scurry, to and fro, wherever they may be needed while the long hours pass minute by minute, the monotony lashing them until at last they break the self imposed discipline and pause, chatting to their mates, refreshing their minds and taking a moment to remember that the torture of the day won’t last forever.
They glance furtively, left and right while they talk lest the heavy hand of authority strike without warning, reducing them to contemplating their mundane duties in silence, all fun and life sucked from them and reducing their mortal recepticles to almost sub-human husks.
Now, gaze fixed forward, almost comatose with concentration, tunnel vision guiding their forward traction, they move on the mail. Wave after wave dispatched with barely a bead of sweat falling from their furrowed brows.
Hour after hour they grind along oblivious to the rest of the world that exists outside the walls and away from the unnatural light to which they are captive.
Finally, long after darkness has fallen and the rest of the world have taken their leave and retired for the night, the relief that comes from the smallest of sounds, the chimes of a clock, releases them, setting them free to find their way home, away from the rigours of daily toil to the comfort of bed and refreshment of sleep.
Only then can they lay the demons of the day to rest and only the thoughts of doing it all again tomorrow haunt their dreams.
Such is the life of the mail sorter.
This is of course a highly stylised version of what may or may not happen to a mail officer during the course of the day. Believe it if you will!
Have a nice night.
Strange Notations From a Laborious Life 