Welcome to the Twirlies Mr Cook ( I.P.)

During the 1980’s I got a job at the Post Office. I was a counter clerk. Back then the work was varied. We didn’t just sell stamps, we gave old people their pension money, cashed green giros for the unemployed, issued one year passports and bus passes, sold tax discs, National Saving Certificates and much, much more.

The training was quite intense. A thirteen week course at the Post office Training Centre at Featherstone Street in London.

Every now and again the Tutor would mention the twirlies. He would say something like, “Each office is different. You may be in an office that does a lot of pensions or Giros or it could be a twirlie office.”

Surprisingly no one stopped him and asked him what he meant. I suppose everyone was new and too embarrassed to ask.

After my training I was assigned to a busy office in Essex. On my first day the Manager took me to one side and welcomed me. He said that the area was “elderly” and that it was a big pension office. So on Thursdays it would be none stop pensions, the queue would always be massive and we would be under constant pressure. As I was leaving his office, he added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh and of course we serve a lot of twirlies.”

Again, that word. Twirlies.

Each office had a thick training manual. It was called “The Complete Post office Guide”. In it was every service that we offered. There were thousands of them. I looked in the index. T for twirlies. Nothing.

In my first two or three weeks I served hundreds and hundreds of pensioners and gave out tens of thousands of pounds in pension money. John and Trevor, a couple of other guys that worked with me asked if I wanted to join them for a pint after work. I jumped at the chance.

We closed as usual at five thirty and by five thirty five we were sitting in the pub each with a pint in our hands. John was the eldest. He’d been “on the counter” for more than fifteen years. He put down his pint and gave a sigh.

“What a day, those fucking twirlies get on my nerves. Never got the right information with them. It says exactly what they need on the form. Two photographs, proof of age and proof of address. But they still get it wrong.”

Again that word. Twirlies. I had to find out what he was talking about. So I asked him.

“John, what the fuck is a twirlie?”

The two of them looked at each other and started to laugh. John put down his drink.

“Twirlies are the bus pass people, the over sixties.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Sorry mate, still don’t get it.”

“Look, we issue bus passes right, to the over sixties?”

“Yeh, and…”

“They can only use them after nine in the morning. That’s so they avoid the peak time for bus travel. You know, people trying to get to work, kids going to school. After nine o’clock the buses are quieter and that’s when the twirlies can use their passes.”

“Yeh, but why are they called twirlies?”

“It was started by the bus drivers, and now it’s a common term used by everyone involved. You see, the crafty old buggers often try to use them before nine o’clock and would try to get on the bus at say eight fifty five. They would always look surprised when the bus driver told them they couldn’t use them yet.”

“Sorry John, still not with you.”

“Well they always say the same thing.”

“Which is?”

John and Trevor looked at each other and then spoke at the same time.

“Are we too early, are we too early, are we too early?”