John Roughan: Long, hard road to learning the dignity of labour

COMMENT

Thursday morning I'm usually at my desk trying to put some thoughts in order for this piece. Instead I was on the road, Whangaparaoa Rd to be precise, with too much time to ponder the wisdom of Pol Pot.

Pol Pot, when he came to power in Cambodia, sent all the ponderous people in comfortable jobs back to work in the fields for "re-education". Everyone has said he was nuts, but on Thursday on the Whangaparaoa Rd I realised he was on to something.

That was the day the people who run this organ had decided to celebrate its anniversary by putting a free copy into every mailbox in its metropolitan area. For this gesture they asked the staff to help the regular delivery agents. Well, what could you say?

Actually most of my colleagues, with foresight perhaps, said nothing but I said, what the hell.

I envisaged a couple of hours' stroll around the neighbourhood, greeting the early risers with an unexpected gift while the birds chattered in the trees and the first streaks of sunrise lightened the sky.

That prospect took a blow when the assignment arrived and I was instructed to assemble at Whangaparaoa at 2.45am.

Deputy Editor David Hastings had drawn the same straw. We duly arrived at the appointed place, a cavernous carpark which to our astonishment was deserted. We had fondly expected to join a gaggle of volunteers decked out like us in Herald bibs.

Out of the gloom a minivan appeared. It was Rob, part-way through his regular deliveries. He looked on us with a certain pity.

Presently a covered truck rumbled into the carpark. Its sides were unstrapped and bundles of newspapers tumbled out. Bundles and bundles. When we'd stacked them into a block mountain the truck went away and Rob told us as gently as he could that we would be doing Whangaparoa Rd.

Yeah, all of it. That's right, just the two of us.

Now if you've occasionally driven along that road to the great park at the end of the peninsula you have probably remarked, as I have every time, at how much longer it is than you expect. David knew it, too. We laughed in that carefree way you can when you know you're facing impossible odds and it's too late to do anything but press on.

Sometime after 3am with little cars loaded and the road to ourselves we went to work, each taking a side of the street. Like all menial tasks, delivering papers has its own lore that you quickly come to respect.

Letter boxes become defiant sentinels of privacy, daring you to insinuate your dubious bundle into an unsuspecting slot. In the darkness you're acutely conscious of the sleeping house behind. You don't want to grapple at the gatepost too long.

Quickly you become a connoisseur of the practical postbox. The best by far are those simple tin hangers that everybody had in the 1950s and which deserve to be a retro fashion item now. They open and close at the front with a satisfying clang and they hold nearly everything.

The worst are the designer gateposts with cute round chutes set into the stucco. The hole is just too small for a decent newspaper, no matter how tightly rolled.

In between there are boxes with gaps of various shapes in which you can neatly wedge the Herald if you use your head. When next I ran into David he was glowing with discovery. He had been trying to twist the paper into origami until he noticed that the subscribers' copies were inserted with one or two lengthwise folds.

Every other box bears the legend, "No junk mail", which we felt sure did not include newspapers. I'd never realised how strongly a few people feel on that subject; they have installed letter boxes so tiny they could hold nothing else.

Posties see a side of human nature the rest of us never notice.

As we stumbled on with armfuls of papers - just five are surprisingly heavy - and edged the cars forward a few houses at a time, every act in the routine becomes tiring and up for review.

Should I leave the car idling? Dare I leave the keys in it? Getting those keys out of an increasingly clammy pocket is a struggle I can do without.

As 5am turned to 6am, the morning traffic was starting to hum and we were not halfway along our run. Not by a long way.

Daylight arrived. The car engine fan was working overtime. David, who had raced ahead in the darkness with fewer houses, I reckon, on his side of the street, came into view. He was looking hot, grimy and frazzled.

On two hours' sleep and a normal day's work waiting, we exchanged some observations about this whole idea.

Beyond Manly my side of the road was more sparsely populated and I overtook David on the final hill climb. In triumph sometime after 10am I filled the last postbox on the peninsula.

Looking back we had learned more than the dignity of labour. Both of us are far enough up the tree to see how bright commercial ideas take flight. Now we had seen one from street level, as it were.

Big, bold, simple suggestions can galvanise an executive meeting with not much thought for the logistical details. Rob, according to his wife Gail, had been awake most of the previous night worrying how it would pan out on his patch.

Across town we were not the only ring-ins wondering as the morning wore on about the practicality of it all.

But that was Thursday. After a night's sleep the whole idea seems much better.

It was a credit to those such as Rob and Gail who moved the mountains of papers, distributed by local groups who earned some funds in the process. And you can see why they had kept those groups away from main roads in the morning rush.

As for me, a heritage of 140 years can leave me quite sentimental. So it was as well that I had something more useful to do.