‘4 = Wednesday, Novémber 8; 1987 -- North Shore News

Bob Hunter

® strictly personal ®

IT WAS a wonderful mo-
ment.

I'd received a notice from the

¥ post office that there was a parcel
waiting for me. It was something
I needed right away, deadlines
being involved.

] groaned. I haven’t set foot
inside a post office for over a
year, you sce.

But there happened to be no
one around at the moment !
could bribe cr bully into doing
the dirty work of shuffling cap-
in-hand through the lineup for

} me.

1 try hard to avoid the post of-
fice, just like I avoid the zoo.
They both depress me, the one
because of the animals in cages,

| the other because they treat me
like an animal.

Let’s just say that as a service
industry, the post office is soft,
soft, soft.

“The Canadian postal service
| is so pathetic that I have long

. ce taken to sending all my
| business mail by courier and if
| J want to communicate with a
| friend or relative, I do it by
i phone.”’

f I.remember visiting Cuba. Ser-
i vice’ there was as bad as service at
fa ‘:“anadian post oifice. The
4 Cubans had an excuse: Castro
aid his goon squads. What's the
post office’s excuse? Jean-Claude
Parrot, I guess.
Ever since that blithering idiot
| Lester Pearson gave federal civil
servants the power to strike, guys
like Parrot have become big Lit-
tule Caesars, regularly hijacking
the population’s mail and
demanding a ransom in wage in-
creases and job guarantees. .

The Canadian postal service is
so pathetic that I have long since
taken to sending all my business
mail by courier and if I want to
communicate with a friend or

i relative, I do it by phone.

I’m! what you'd call a drop-out
from ithe postal system. At least,
that’ s my ambition.

But there I was, stuck with go-
ing down to face the sullen
posties one more time.

It, being late morning,
midweek, it so happened there
was jno lineup. There were six
postal persons milling laconically
around behind the counter.

I went straight to the woman at

| the wicket, whom I have had the
misfortune of dealing with many
times in the past. ~

She was busy scribbling some-
thing and took a minute. or so
before she even looked up.

The five other people who

§ could have waited on me were

careful to avoid eye contact as
they traded gossip and shop talk
— a plain couspiracy to ignore
the lone customer in the joint.

Typical. This is a litte humili-
ation ritual civil servants like to
put you through. The purpose of
the exercise is to let it be known
just vho holds the whip hand
here.

Finaily, I was honored with a
look and a curt nod. ! flipped my
card down on the counter and
grunted.

I mean, that’s the level my
relationship with the posties has
got down to over the years. Curt
nods and grunts.

With a sneer of contempt, she
swiftly circled an address on the
card and pushed the card back at

me.

“If you’d look at
dress,’’ she hissed, ‘‘you’d see
that parcels are no longer to be
picked up here.’’

If one’s ears could both flatten
and perk up at the same time,
mine would have done so. I
braced for more bu-eaucratic
waste of my time and energy —
but also felt a tremor of excite-
ment in my heart.

Whatever had happened, the
postal lady didn’t like it. That
was a very good sign.

“Explain,” I half-growled,
keeping my expression blank.

Her voice was high-pitched
with indignant wrath: ‘‘The post
office has contracted-out parcel
pickup to this address.”

Well, weil, well.

I guess I couldn’t keep the
smirk off my face. Her eyes nar-
rowed. I could tell she was feel-
ing job-related stress, poor dear.
I was kind of hoping she'd cry,
to tell the truth. You don’t know

what this woman has put me

through over the years.

So I picked up my card, cast a
savage grin of triumph at the
other loafers lurking in the
background, and marched out
without saying a word.

I was shaking slightly from
happiness

to the new address — which
turned out conveniently to be a
new drug store quite close to my
house.

Sure enough, there was a post-
al counter. A_ smiling young
woman came over right away and

said: ‘‘What can I do for you, |

sir?’’
I explained about the parcel,

gave her the card. Spotting the §

parcel, right away, I told her
where it was and she cheerfully
dug it out.

I asked her what the hours
were. All day until nine, seven
days a week. And I could mail
stuff and do all the usual post
office transactions? Yes sir.

i left with my parcel, singing.

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and warm feelings |
toward Tories, even, as I drove |

man
captured
im WY

WEST VANCOUVER Police have
charged a Nanaimo man, wanted
on a number of outstanding war-
rants for offences on Vancouver
Island, with two counts of posses-
sion of stolen property.

Charged is 22-year-old Martin
Douglas Bailey of Nanaimo.

Police responded 9 a.m. Nov. 13
to a report of a man conducting
himself in an indecent manner in a
truck parked at 19th Street and
Inglewood Avenue.

While police were talking to
him, he sped off westbound on In-
glewood. Police pursued, and the
driver fled on foot west across the
Pauline Johnson Elementary
schoolyard and into the school.

He was tracked inside the school
with the assistance of a West Van-
couver Police dog and located in
the school’s boiler room.

The truck driven by Bailey was
found to be stolen in Nanaimo.
The plates on the car were stolen
and police also recovered stolen
auto stereo equipment and three
telephones.

Bailey faces outstanding war-
rants from Victoria police,
Parksville and Nanaimo RCMP
for offences which include break
and enter, obstruction of a police
officer, breach of probation and
theft over $1,000.

i

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