Popemobile 0.2

There’s a van at work that everyone prays they don’t get handed the keys to. Aptly christened The Popemobile. Because, well… it looks just like that. Only bright red. And somehow more offensive to the human eye. It sticks out like a sore thumb in a rave of manicured fingers. An aesthetic crime scene. Total eyesore. Roof so high it borders on parody. Small. Squat. A loadspace you could barely swing a cat in — hypothetically, of course, we’re not animals — let alone pile parcels with any dignity, or self-respect intact. It’s the death card of vans. The runt of the litter. The one you pretend you didn’t see when the keys are being handed out. No one likes it. Aside from Conspiracy Kev. “Drives like a dream,” he once said, with the haunted conviction of a man who also thinks pigeons are government drones. His words. Not mine. But today? Today I would’ve kissed that reliable, hunched-back beast square on the bonnet — tongue and all, no witnesses, no regrets. Because today… I’ve been handed the keys to the new Quasimodo in town. Enter: Popemobile 0.2. It’s like Royal Mail are actively trying to ruin our street cred. As if the fluorescent uniform isn’t quite enough to match our permanently blushed cheeks… they now want us driving something that looks like it’s crawled straight out of a villain’s origin story in some over-exaggerated kids’ animation. This one has out-roofed the original. So tall, in fact, it requires a rope ladder to climb into the cab. (No, really.) And — somehow — it only has two wheels. Two. Which feels like a balancing act a little too close to death for my liking. “If I die,” I mutter, staring at it, “tell people I went bravely. Heroically. Not… like this.” Dave tosses me the keys. “You’ll be fine.” Famous last words. If I thought the boot space was bad in the original, I was wrong. Painfully wrong. Popemobile 0.2 has zero space for parcels. None. Not even a pity corner. Only room for one postie… and their dwindling will to live. The parcels? They go in a trailer attached to the back, swinging around tight corners like it’s threatening divorce and custody of the parcels. And the worst part of all? I don’t even realise it at first. I’m halfway down the road when it starts. Soft. Innocent. Then louder. Unmistakable. Postman Pat, Postman Pat… I freeze. “No,” I whisper. …Postman Pat and his black and white — “—cat!” someone sings gleefully from the pavement. All eyes snap in my direction. A man actually claps. A child points. I feel my soul leave my body in a calm, dignified exit. Jesus H Christ. This is the nightmare of all nightmares. I already know — know — I’m going to need at least three therapy sessions after this ordeal. Possibly a support group. Chairs in a circle. Weak tea. Eye contact I can’t sustain. More frustrating than the whimsical soundtrack… more humiliating than the precarious rope ladder… more soul-crushing than looking like some unhinged postal villain… Is the speed. Ten miles per hour. And that’s me being generous. Foot flat to the floor. Full commitment. I’ve been overtaken by a woman pushing a pram. She gives me a look. Not mocking. Worse. Pity. It’s clear the Royal Mail bosses are trying to set us up for failure. So I adapt. Because that’s what we do. We adapt… or we unravel. I develop a new system. One has to be inventive. So — in true Spider-Man fashion — I abandon the ground entirely. I leap onto houses. Climb walls. Skitter across rooftops like an overly caffeinated spider with a mailbag. Letters clenched between my teeth. Parcels hooked under my arm. “I’ve got you, Mrs Jenkins!” I mutter, clinging to her gutter like a deranged, flapping pigeon. Through open bedroom windows — I post. Efficient. Creative. Deeply concerning. Of course… there’s a flaw. A glaring, humiliating lack of foresight. Not everyone keeps their bedroom windows open. And I certainly didn’t plan for the… activities. Turns out, morning sex is very much a thing in this neighbourhood. “Oh—Jesus—SORRY—POST!” I yelp, lobbing a parcel blindly into a room I absolutely should not have entered. A scream. A thud. The slapping-skin symphony ends mid-note. I drop from the wall, dignity snagging briefly on a drainpipe before tearing clean off. Note to self: add PTSD to the therapy list. By the end of my shift, I am broken. Hands sore. Knees holey. My self-respect now reduced to the size of a third-class stamp. The slow voyage back to the office feels biblical in its suffering. The tortuous jingle taunts me the whole damn way. Postman Pat, Postman Pat… “Yeah, alright” I mutter. “We get it.” When I finally get home, I just want to disintegrate into the sofa and never get up. And for five glorious minutes… I don’t. Then boredom taps me on the shoulder like an old enemy. I reach for my iPad. Lose myself in something I actually enjoy — digital art. And because I apparently lack imagination, I paint what I know. A deranged Spider-Man postie scaling a building. Limbs too long. Eyes slightly unhinged. A creature caught somewhere between dedication and a breakdown. It’s… unsettlingly accurate. I’m deep in it. Properly deep. That sweet, rare flow where the world softens its edges. When — A rustling. Behind the Christmas tree. Yes. The Christmas tree. Still standing. In April. I’ve mocked people for less. I freeze. The rustle comes again. I turn slowly. And there — A girl. Young. Hiding behind the branches like some festive parasite. Laughing. I nearly drop my iPad. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, completely thrown. Her cheeks glow as red as my own driving that hideous contraption. “I’m Alex’s… girlfriend,” she says. I actually drop the iPad this time. Thwack. Face down. “Girlfriend?” I echo, like the word itself might rearrange if I say it enough times. Not because it’s strange. Just… unexpected. If I’m completely honest, I’d always assumed he might be batting for the other team. Had the whole thing mapped out in my head. Seating plan, playlist, emotional arc. Possibly a tasteful wedding. Alex has always been… expressive. The way he holds himself. His demeanour. The fact he once rocked up to school with a bright pink pencil case and a fluffy flamingo pen — no shame, no hesitation. No shits given. He’s never shown interest in girls. And yet… Here we are. “Right,” I say, recovering badly. “Well. That’s… new information.” I watch them from the window. Skipping down the road, hand in hand. Young. Giddy. Unapologetically themselves. Happy. Something in my chest shifts. Quietly. When I turn back to my iPad… Something’s changed. The drawing. The postie is still there — half-spider, half-woman, clinging to brick with that same frantic energy. But her face… Softer. Less… desperate. Less intrusive. And in the window she’s climbing towards — Two figures. Laughing. Unaware. Untouched. Living in a moment that doesn’t belong to her. I stare at it. At her. At me. All day I’ve been forcing my way into spaces that weren’t mine. Windows. Rooms. Lives. Expectations. Even Alex. Trying to make everything fit the version I’d already decided on — pre-labelled, pre-approved, and entirely imagined. Forced through the letterbox of my own expectation. The jingle hums faintly in my head. Postman Pat, Postman Pat… I let out a quiet laugh. Maybe it’s not about dignity. Maybe it’s not about control. Maybe it’s about knowing when something isn’t yours to deliver — no matter how tightly you’ve wrapped it, and addressed it to yourself. I set the iPad down. Glance at the popemobile keys on the table. Still red. Still ridiculous. Still waiting for me. “Alright,” I mutter. “Tomorrow… we try again.”