There on the verge at the bend in the road that leads to our village is a newly erected gravestone. It says “RIP? Northlew post office.” There is a shocked communal feeling of having been slapped in the face with a wet fish by some uncomprehending alien.
It’s tiny, our post office and mini shop, but I’ve never been in there alone; there is always someone before me, and another waiting by the time I leave.
Being relatively off the beaten track, many people in the village and probably most in the surrounding areas run their own business from home. This is a substantially agricultural community with lots of farmers, but we also have sizeable businesses including a coach company, industrial and agricultural buildings manufacturer and a tarpaulin maker. There’s a swathe of small businesses; the pub, marketing and PR outfits, audio engineers, IT and web based companies, carpenters and builders, painters and decorators, wine producers and a garage for all your vehicle repairs. And then there are the many micro businesses: a blacksmith, someone who repairs stringed instruments, a graphic designer, seamstress, gardener, tipster, political consultant, honey producer, picture framer, energy efficiency consultant, illustrators, writers, interior designers, historical researchers and more. There’s the church and the Methodist chapel – but I’m unsure whether or not to categorise those as being in the global business sector.
The point is that this is a thriving and diverse community with lots of local jobs – in fact not so much local as right on your own doorstep employment. And every one of us needs access to post office services.
Notwithstanding the new report from Ofcom saying rural households have more broadband than urban ones and the digital divide is no more; we know differently. Want to use online postal services? The village has been refused broadband and online access to post office services remains a dream for the majority. Want to hop on a bus to post a letter, pick up your pension or pay your bills? You’ll be lucky. There is extremely limited public transport, and people in the village will effectively be cut off from post office services.
The contrast between the organisation and the individual is profound; our postman and postmistress really do care. We have the most obliging and helpful postman possible; as long as you put the right stamp on your letter, he’ll pick it up on his round and post it for you, and share a joke to add savour to the day.
We have been told that there will be a mobile service for a total of five hours spread over two days a week. When we struggle to juggle our working day to use the service in that severely restricted window, no doubt that paltry lifeline will also be cut because we don’t use the service enough; a cynical ploy.
The consultation process pits one post office against another. The decision to close 2500 post offices has been made and there is only limited wriggle room as to whether your post office will survive. Work to save your own post office? That means your neighbour’s village post office will likely shut instead.
Does that alien wielding the wet fish have any concept of the full impact of this decision? You won’t be able to pick up your prescription in the village (no doctors surgery or chemist here, but the post office will oblige). You’ll have to travel to pay your bills and get some cash, and that will cost both financially and environmentally.
The village is doing its best to resist the closure with responses to the public consultation, letters, emails, meetings, and the lugubrious but effective sign. This autumn we’ll know the final outcome and whether the gravestone becomes a permanent feature in our village landscape. Who would’ve thought it possible to be in a situation where having a post office was in itself a postcode lottery?
Published in The Landsman August/September 2008 Issue 9
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August 18, 2009 at 8:23 am
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