231 - Jesus On A Stick
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I was a cycle courier for 6 months in my early twenties. I wore a cycle helmet and I didn't have tanned legs. But once I got a bit sucked into the dream of tanned legs and slathered on Body Shop sun oil. I smelt like coconut gasoline as I wafted in to collect a package from the glitteriest fabric shop in Berwick Street.
Eventually I graduated from a 'pager' (which was a kind of telephone messaging system with a little screen), to a radio and my number was '4-2'. When I collected I had to turn a dial and shout '4-2, 4-2, POB! over the radio static. Which meant: Parcel On Board.