A girl from work asked me an odd question today – “Is your mum delivering pamphlets?”
Apparently she’d seen her marching up the road shoving catalogues into letterboxes while my father drove along at a snail pace behind her.
“I doubt it,” I said, because all the people delivering flyers with carpet cleaning and ironing offers to our place are handicapped young men with their carers in tow. Lovely people, mind you, but not ‘my mum’.
Shows you what I know.
It seems Grandma has decided she needs to earn a little extra money, so she answered an ad in the local rag for people interested in doing mail box drops.
For three hours last night my mum folded and put together half the three hundred and seventy packs which she needs to deliver and this morning, again over three long hours, they set out to bring cheap pizza deals to the masses.
Now perhaps her first hint this may not be a great move should have been the regularity with which the ‘help wanted’ ad appears in the paper. Maybe her second hint should have been when the lady asked if she had anyone to help her.
She says it was all going well until dad decided to change the channel on the radio and fell behind. Then mum lost the sole of her shoe and everything went to the dogs. Literally: a little shiatsu with a shoe fetish.
When I visited mum this afternoon I followed her into the lounge as she limped along. Dad was asleep: all that driving had worn the old fruit out.
On the table were boxes of pamphlets for tomorrow’s run.
“Going well?” I asked.
Let’s just say I think tomorrow will be the last go at this. Turns out the financial benefit of six hours packing, six hours walking, an extra person in car (made the mistake of referring to dad as her ‘helper’ – didn’t I get an earful), petrol used and a pair of shoes is a princely $50, all up. Less tax.
“I’d rather gargle sweat,” said Mum, which I’ve taken to mean she’s back in the job market.
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