Peter phoned a taxi at 10 p.m. from his buddies flat. Pete was eager to get up the road, he had spent a hard day walking through his postal duty, his legs were aching, his body weary, and he was looking forward to a comfortable drive up the road, without the use of his legs and feet. Bliss! The taxi arrived quickly. Pete jumped out, jumped in, and off they went:
Where you going to mate? Asked the taxi driver in a friendly manner.
22 Albion Avenue, Giffnock, please mate.
Off they drove. The driver started to chin wag.
I’m not 100% sure of this area, maybe you can keep us right pal. I generally taxi around Rutherglen and Cambuslang. So, jist you keep us right cheers…!
No worries mate, it’s just near the fitness club, take a left after that, and your on the street. I’ll point it out.
Here mate, is your address not in Muirend? Do you call it Giffnock or Muirend? I know some folk like to put Giffnock at the end of their address because it means the mail won’t go missing – haha – or ya know: rather put Giffnock than Muirend, because it has a bit more respectability. Like the way, some people say they live in Hillside, instead of Castlemilk, as if they don’t like folk to know they live in that area.
Pete was sitting in the back, listening to the guy, clocking him in his mirror now and then. Funnily enough, Pete’s address was in Giffnock, and not Muirend, but yet, the areas were within inches of each other. It occurred to Pete he had never really given it much thought before, largely because it seemed irrelevant, a mute-point. It’s not like Pete was in anyway overly considered with appearing to be in a posh area. It was all the same to him.
Well, mate, now that you mention it, it is on the border of Muirend and Giffnock, I suppose it is Muirend, I mean, I live right beside Bogton Park and that is in Muirend. To be honest, I’ve always put Giffnock when sending mail or when mentioning where I say, but I suppose it is Muirend. They are virtually the same place. I mean, I don’t do it out of pretence.
The taxi driver was being jovial about the whole thing. I think he could tell Pete was feeling a bit awkward, as though the driver was implying, Pete said Giffnock instead of Muirend to come across as coming from a better area or better class of people, which was a ridiculous idea, besides the margin of difference in the areas was negligible, inconsequential, and irrelevant. Sure, Giffnock had some really posh houses, large mansion like events, and one of the largest Jewish communities in Scotland, but that was nothing compared to Newton Mearns or Whitecraigs.
Giffnock has quite a big community of Jews, doesn’t it? The driver asked, but in the way he asked, you knew he already knew the answer; he was using a strange kind of chatty rhetoric.
The driver might have been winding Pete up, could he see Pete was sleepy, knackered. Pete wanted to go home, to get some sleep, he walked for seven hours sold that day, and he had to get up again tomorrow and do it all again and again and again.
O, aye, big Jewish community in Giffnock, it’s the Israel of Scotland! But, you know mate, I’ve never really given much thought to the name difference of Giffnock or Muirend, I’ve grown up using them interchangeably.
Ay well, some folk like to think they are better than others, pretend to live in better areas, better stalk of people.
I suppose so some might do. And, I suppose some people use areas as a way to make people seem like they are snobs too, to make cheap digs, thought Pete. Some people use place to make all kinds of assumptions, this taxi driver had brought up the class issue. Peter had never really considered it before. He didn’t walk about with the pretense that he was somehow classy because he lived in a sleepy suburb, the idea was ridiculous, seemed like the taxi driver was more concerned about class and snobbery, i.e. making it out that if you came from a decent area you must be a snob.
So, what you doing tomorrow? Uni…College…?
Na, I’m a postman, got my duty at 8 tomorrow morning. And what a hell of a day I had today! Walking for seven hours solid without rest, and on my last box, my key snapped in the lock and I had to leave it, and now I’ve got double mail on the my last box tomorrow.
Awww, right really, you’re a postman! The driver sounded surprised. What area do you work? And, how come you call your address Giffnock and not Muirend, I thought all you post men knew that sort of stuff…?
I work the Giffnock area, Burnfield Road, anywhere from Arden to Whitecraigs.
You must see some big houses…?
O aye, huge houses, you need to walk half a mile up their drive way to get to the letter box, or the have massive gardens that you could play five asides on. Palaces…! But it depends what area…I do a lot of flat blocks too.
So, how come you say you’re area is Giffnock?
Well, to be honest, because that’s what I’ve always known it as…I mean Giffnock and Muirend, to me, are the same place. I mean, I also put Glasgow down when I’m sending mail, but these suburbs are just outside Glasgow…but we still consider it Greater Glasgow…we all do! So, I just use Giffnock and Muirend in the same way…I mean, I actually think on the map it is Giffnock, but to all intents and purposes, it’s inches from Muirend. What are these areas really, but patches of the same ground, really but!? Pete finished off satisfied with his conclusion, even if it was sprawling.
The driver mentioned how his mate was a postie too and he used to walk from miles too. He joked, that whenever he went out with him, he would storm off head, walking with fast bounds, as though he was in a race or competition. The driver and Pete both laughed, imagining a frantic postman walking down a main street, with determination in his eyes, walking like a soldier on a mission. That is the postman trait, fast steady precise walker. Essentially, a postman’s main duty is too walk! Their legs will not let them hear the end of it.
The driver pulled up into Albion Avenue, pushed up the slight hill, then pulled up outside number 22. Pete was relieved, couldn’t wait get home, have a cool drink, quick bath to sooth the muscles, and hit the sack, get a good sleep to he could be fresh for his walk tomorrow.
The taxi driver announced: 3pound eighty, please mate.
Pete handed over a fiver. Odd, he got a taxi, the same route home, maybe two times a week, certainly hundreds of times over the years, and it always came to 3 pounds on the nose. He thought it odd that this guy should shimmy it up by 80pence, but Pete didn’t care. He laughed to himself: this isn’t an issue of class; it is an issue of whose wallet gets fattest first. It didn’t really matter if you lived in a veritable slum or a large mansion, some people desired wealth and property, others community and enough to get them through life; either way the rubbish all stank the same, from here to poverty, from Bearsden to the Gorbals High-rise, from palaces to farm houses, the rubbish all shared to same stench, nope, no escaping that, and besides everyone had some designs or other to barter a better deal, and everyone continued to sit in judgement of everyone else.
Cheers Driver…Said Pete as he jumped out.
The taxi drove off, hunting for more fares, more cash, more chat. Pete unlocked the door, got inside, ran a bath, and whether Giffnock or Muirend, Heaven or Hell, he found bliss in his bath, filled with glorious hot water, and relaxed.