Paper rounds were a proper rite of passage weren't they:
Customising your bike with the rack on the back and the apehanger handle bars, black fingers, one shoulder wider that the other, the letter box sized peek into the early morning routine of your customers (Ooh the sexy secretary type at number 42), the mad dogs, the flea in the ear for tardiness - "You're a right bloody "Express" aintcha ?" Did you get Christmas boxes? "Hello I'm your paperboy and I'd like to wish you a merry christmas" and standing there with your hand out, "Erm right ho, wait there a minute son, How much did they give you next door? 50p? Right here's a quid". I used to deliver Elton John's auntie's Daily Mirror, Have I told you that?
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