Part One

Christmas, New Year, came and went; so did the job at Black and Decker.

On our last day, I was surprised to see Bob, Tom, and Martin all turn up to work with enormous hiking rucksacks. What were they doing? A big farewell picnic lunch, perhaps.

It took a while for things to click: they were intending to gather a few Black and Decker perks as going-away presents. At seven o'clock in the evening, they all signed off and staggered to the minivan laden down with enough tools to start their own carpentry business. Not wanting to be a party-pooper, I stuffed a hammer into my bag before departing. Half-heartedly, however; stealing wasn't my thing.

For several months now we had all been working hard, and the buy-a-rural-smallholding fund was building up very encouragingly. Dave seemed well settled in his driving job. He did a lot of complaining, but felt he was doing something useful, and had a good friendship with one of the other guys working there. Mottie landed a job as lab assistant at Oxford Polytechnic (later to become Brookes University, Oxford, in a government effort to demonstrate that everybody goes to uni, and therefore we are all equally geniuses). He appeared to quite like it; biology and stuff was his field, and his first real experience of work was stimulating. Meanwhile, Liberty had found a job just down the road, in Lucy's ironworks, Walton Well Road. It was pretty tough factory labour, but the money wasn't bad.

It was around this time, maybe February 1975, that Liberty returned home one evening and announced that he was leaving the ironworks. Conditions were intolerable, he stated emphatically. What's more, this town life wasn't agreeing with him at all. He was therefore changing his name. Liberty Fox was to be reborn as Raging Fox.

The rest of us looked at each other disconcertingly at news of this turn of events. Then we got on as if nothing had happened. We read the warning signs, then proceeded to ignore them. We were, arguably, a little naive...

Note: for the sake of simplicity, I shall continue to refer to the foxlike one as Liberty Fox. This is particularly so since, a while later, he changed once more to Not-So Raging Fox.

Part Two

For myself, I was on the search for further employment, and soon landed the next phase of my working life, a job as local friendly Oxford postman.

In some respects it was a punishing schedule. Six mornings a week I would need to be at the sorting office by 5am, when I would organise the letters for my delivery into pigeon holes designed for purpose. Around 7.30, along with the other posties, I would get on my bicycle and head into the darkness of the cold twilit morning to get rid of the stuff. On some days, that would be it; on others, I was back at the sorting office by 11 o'clock to take out a second delivery. 

For my first assignment, I was given a beat in Blackbird Leys, south-east Oxford. Put kindly, this was one of the less desirable areas of the city, consisting largely of high-rise tower blocks raking the horizon in concrete uniformity. I spent lots of time hauling bags of heavy mail up and down cold stone stairways, But once I knew my way around, it posed few real problems. There were plenty more tedious jobs around, after all, and I was out on my own in the open air, which suited me fine.

There are things that the postie's training just didn't cover, however. Where to have a pee was the most glaring omission. What do you do? Three hours out among the anonymous towers of Blackbird Leys. No conveniences. Nobody you know. It's not like soap operas on television, where people never need to stop mid-sentence and run to the loo. No, this was for real. I eventually found a secluded spot around the back of a block of flats, hidden from view. Or so I hoped...

The Oxford sorting office was centred around a hard-core of males in their 40s and 50s. They went into the postal world straight from school; never knew anything else. I had no serious issues with any of them. Although I appeared to be a bit of a curiosity, I was friendly enough, worked hard and took responsibility. They recognised that, and respected it. Very different were the managers, the supervisors. They were a shady bunch, always on the lookout for somebody to give a hard time. One of them went to jail after I left, I believe, for stealing stuff. I wasn't surprised.

Part Three

After winning my spurs in Blackbird Leys and on a variety of holiday reliefs, I succeeded in landing my own regular delivery round. My attitude to work paid dividends, as I was given a round in a pleasant part of north Oxford. Even some of the old-timers looked at me with a touch of envy. Even better, it was close to the commune's residence, so I was able to drop in for a mid-morning snack en route back to the sorting office.

Meanwhile, overtime loomed once more. The commune project needed financing, and I was up for it. After my regular delivery round I would go home for late lunch and a brief chat with the currently unemployed Liberty Fox about ancient Egypt and Carlos Castaneda. Then I would take an afternoon nap before mounting my two-wheeled steed once more and heading to the sorting office for 5pm. After three hours of frantic letter-and-parcel sorting, I would cycle home for evening meal with the others, then soon to bed. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

It was during these evening overtime shifts that I met French Phil. He was named thus because he came from France. He lived with his girlfriend in an enormous house on nearby Walton Street, which teemed with assorted students, ex-students, freaks, longhairs, and various countercultural heroes. It became a popular haunt of ours, with its dinners, parties, and general pop-ins to see what's happening. Phil turned into a regular visitor to the commune, and a firm friend for Liberty and me in particular.

I was working hard, tired at times, but things were generally going swimmingly. And then, something unexpected happened.... 

Appendix: The Music

It's a great song, I think. Here's another version, which I especially like.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZZsg1JJ6Ws

What makes the song so outstanding is the pathos. Waiting for that letter from a loved one. Will they write or not? Is it all just the beginning, or is it already over? Nowadays, we live in a world of 'instant' where such experiences are rare. 'Hello, I love you, Won't you tell me your name?' In another example of how things are not black and white, my former Buddhist teacher spoke of the Victorian era, that age of unspoken guilty passion, of long unrequited love. He pointed out that this wasn't so bad after all. Feeling, in order to gain depth, to become real, needs time. Infatuation: OK, it has its place, but it is not the same. It is so often 'here today, gone tomorrow'.

Bring back snail mail between lovers, and the world will gain in depth, in real feeling.

'If you liked that, you might like this': it's not such a brilliant song. But any musicians communicating a sense of being awake to current events is encouraging. The vast majority of music people have, in recent times, shown themselves to be anything but questioning, edgy, countercurrent. A real let-down. The Mona Lisas also show how to talk about what's happening without getting chucked off YT.   

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QAKz_cxTlQ 

Images:

Liberty's last stand: Lucy's, Walton Well Road (now closed, I believe)

Still there: A tower block, Blackbird Leys