With my dignity in the post

[TrueBlueTerrier]

http://www.thetimes.co.za/PrintEdition/ ... id=1059222" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;

‘WHO ran the first sub-four-minute mile?” was a common quiz question when I was a kid.

I knew the answer was Roger Bannister, but nothing else about the man. Little did I know then that fate would one day lead me to his doorstep in his home in the town of Oxford and then to an even closer meeting.

It was by chance that I ended up in Oxford in the first place. I was on a ferry from Ireland to England with no clue where to head next.

“How about Oxford?” a couple aboard the ferry suggested. A romantic image of dreaming spires and eccentric scholars sprang into my head and I decided to go.

I got a job at the Royal Mail and found myself wobbling down the street on a bicycle, a bulging sack of post over my shoulder. I was hopelessly dressed for the wet weather. But at least I was out in the open and able to see Oxford. Little red mail vans tooted at me as I rode along and I felt like I was in some weird Postman Pat parallel universe.

My first stop was an imposing crescent of white houses gleaming in the post-rain sunshine. Although all the houses looked the same, the letter flaps were very different in size and shape. Most were way too small as I discovered when trying to shove a National Geographic through one. I had managed to fold and push it in halfway when the door opened dragging me into a grand hallway. An elderly lady in a silk dressing gown exclaimed in a horrified whisper: “Whatever happened to our real postman?”

I beat a hasty retreat leaving the soggy magazine lodged in the postbox.

One hundred houses later, I was ready to head back to the sorting office. But picking up what I thought was an empty postbag I heard a rustle. One letter remained and it was addressed to Roger Bannister Esq.

Getting to his house would mean backtracking half a mile but I didn’t mind. One day I would be able to tell my grandchildren I had been a postman to the rich and famous. I ignored the large post box attached to his gate and headed up the front path. Peering through the lounge window I saw a collection of glinting trophies and photographs featuring RB in various poses of athletic triumph. The clang of the letter flap provided a satisfying finale to my first and last postal round.

Puffing back to the sorting office past honey-toned colleges guarded by porters in bowler hats, I vowed that one day I would see beyond their hallowed portals.

Fast forward two years. My delivering days behind me, I was now the live-in carer of an octogenarian knight of the realm. Sir M had been invited to attend a dinner at his alma mater Merton College. My heart leapt as I stepped through the ancient gate into the courtyard. I had done it — at last I had penetrated the bounds of an Oxford college.

My excitement escalated when I saw the dinner plan. There in black and white was my humble name flanked by lords, ambassadors, bishops and … could it be? Opposite to mine was the name Roger Bannister. Had destiny really brought us together again?

As we sat down for dinner in the candlelit hall, I whispered to myself over and over: “Don’t mention the mile, don’t mention the letter.”

After a large slug of wine, I became aware of a folded name card being pushed in my direction from across the table. I looked up to see Mr Bannister pointing at his name by way of introduction. His eyebrow was raised quizzically so I guessed it was my turn.

Bashfully, I nudged my card towards him and tried to repeat my mantra in my head, but the wine had taken hold.

“You were the first man to run the four- minute mile, weren’t you? You’ll never believe this, but I once delivered a letter to you…”

Damn.

[baldrick]

'One hundred houses' on a delivery? Must have been a good round.