Report
to the People
30th
December 2002
Christmas Workers
Well that’s that over for another year. The presents are opened, the in-laws are away and there’s only another four days supply of turkey soup, turkey curry and turkey sandwiches left in the fridge.
Now, if you’re lucky enough to be off right through until the New Year, you’re probably looking forward to a couple of days of watching 30 year-old repeats or doing a spot of light visiting.
But, as you relax after the hectic and stressful build up to Christmas Day, spare a thought for those who are not afforded this luxury, but are already back continuing with their work of making our festive season as enjoyable as possible.
Consider, for example, the staff of the Royal Mail. These men and women – such as those I met at the Knowe Road Sorting Office when I dropped in to thank them for their hard work in the run up to Christmas – get up in the middle of the night to sort our mail or pound the frozen streets, just so we can get the cards which mean so much to so many of us. (They now, of course, are back at work delivering your credit card bills and bank statements, but I wouldn’t let that influence your judgement.)
And, when we go for a pint or a bite to eat with the friends we hardly see during the rest of the year, think about the bar and restaurant staff who forgo catching up with their own friends to make this possible. Then there’s those who staff petrol stations, or drive gritters or trains who help us get to and from these get-togethers. And what about the countless shop workers, who, as if the Christmas shopping season wasn’t busy enough, are now run off their feet helping us find bargains in the sales?
NHS staff, from doctors and nurses to porters and maintenance engineers, still have hospitals to run and patients to care for. And the emergency services still have to respond to the same harrowing and dangerous incidents with which they deal at every other time of the year.
So, if you’re reading this in your snug living room, having had a look at the TV page and a moan that there’s nothing on, remember the newsagent who sold you this paper or the boy or girl who delivered it. Want to swap places? Or does an afternoon nursing the only drop of sherry you managed to hide from your mother-in-law and watching Ben-Hur for the umpteenth time suddenly not seem as bad?
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