Haven’t made a post for a few days. Life has been quiet and it occurred to me that my posts have been getting repetitive and I really haven’t had much to write about. Just work of course which gives me a bit of fodder to chew on but I’m sure any regular reader would understand by now the limitations of the MC as a social and work enviroment and and I’m sure it can get boring reading my complaints about the place.
That being said, I like to practice my writing and I am going to give an account of what it was like to endure the day at AP yesterday. The days blur into one another and so every day becomes a bit like all the rest so please forgive me if the elements of the post are similar to other posts I’ve written. In any case, I hope you continue the journey with me.
The day began like any other. That’s where the problem started!
The boredom crystallised in the gloom ahead, beckoning me on like a siren tempting an ancient marriner. I don’t want to succumb but I have no choice. The evil song draws me toward my destiny.
Like a convict on a lifer’s run I must bite down hard, taking whatever may come, day by day. My nemesis awaits. Into the darkness I go……..
The sense of foreboding which had hovered about me all day tickled my sixth sense and I had an inkling of what was coming.
Being rostered on small parcels on Monday had left me in danger today of being thrown over the bridge of despair, into the icy waters of tedium, tossed and turned in the torrent, dragged to the bottom, never again to see the light of day.
Familiar faces lurked around me as I awaited confirmation of what lay ahead.
The aged asian beauty queen taunted and teased me with her pouty lips and tender eyes, her sympathetic manner masking the danger beneath her sublime exterior.
Fat J, laughed and prodded me, her cutting remarks directed at others milling about us disguised as mirth and ignorance but exposing her malice for what it truly is.
The Dutchy, all wild eyed, madness enveloping him, hoping to be provoked by management, ready and willing to fight an industrial war at the drop of a hat.
And our sad sack supervisor, decayed by years of unrequited love and betrayed hopes, yearning, as we all do, for something more from life, but too afraid to look for it. He carries with him the roster, posting it on the wall in front of us. Our fate is sealed.
Sure enough, as the prophets predicted, I’m sent once more to the Bar Code Sorter. I don’t need to read anymore. I know the drill. Two hours BCS. Two hours parcels. Two hours tipping mail bags. I know it by rote. It’s burnt into my soul.
It sits there in silence, almost brooding. Technicians do their last checks as though it’s a rocket capsule soon to depart for the moon. It’s waiting for me.
The button is pushed and lights and whistles signal it’s intent. The big machine rumbles to life and my partners and I begin our circuit of monotony, venturing to the far side of madness and back.
Mail spits and snaps through the machine. Over four levels and 384 stackers it travels. Humming along lines of conveyer belts, around wheels and through switches, like bullets fired from a machine gun, coming to a dead stop in their assigned stackers with a crack like a stockman’s whip.
Up and down the line we tread, emptying full stackers, depositing them in grey trays and sending them off for despatch or to another cursed machine where the same process may be repeated.
Faces become lined, lips pursed. Lethargy starts to bite. My companions are silent. No small talk on this ship. It’s nose to the grindstone. I ponder my descent into despair and wonder what I did to deserve this. I curse the dying of the light.
Then it’s over for another day. The clouds clear. Intensity lifts. We clear the machine of mail and manage to find fifteen minutes to spare before the tea break. Bliss. We chat to our friends, complain about anything we can think of. Go to the toilet. Prepare for the next round.
After the break it’s on to the large parcels. No increase in motivation level here. A slow grind to the main break at 6pm. I work by myself, away from the gaggle of Vietnamese and Laotians in the other bullrings. The only thing worse than working by yourself is working with people who don’t speak your language. I’m happy with my solitary seat in purgatory.
Dinner comes and goes and I’m back on the floor. Tipping mail bags into another machine for two hours. I rotate with the two silent companions who I worked with earlier. One tips, the others cull the large articles out of the hopper. The temperamental machine likes them small. One of my comrades seems intent on breaking the record for most amount of articles ever stuffed into a hopper. It makes it difficult to cull. I take over the tipping. The shape of the job is such that boredom can’t find it’s niche. it’s pure physical work. I like it. Time flies.
We make it to the final tea break and the end of the day is nigh. We have nearly survived. An hour sitting down is a nice reward for a day on my feet. The acting manger is swanning around late tonight, condescending as always but he knows better than to come near me. Patience is short at this time of the day.
And then it ends. Another day on the rack comes to an end and all that is left is the familiar drive home, bedtime and we do it all again tomorrow.
Fabulous!
So there is a small, albeit familar snapshot of what I go through most days in trying to earn a quid. It’s not pretty, it’s not creative but it pays the bills. Maybe one day I will break the vicious cycle and find something more comforting to do. Until then I can only repeat the mantra of which we are actually proud of at AP. We Deliver!
Strange Notations From a Laborious Life 