Hendrix was playing on Radio Tracy as the Leyland Daft crewbus juddered up the icy hill. You could hardly hear the radio over the rattle of the diesel engine, the rasp of the dashboard heater and the thud of the windscreen wipers heaving away the snow. Everyone sat there grimfaced, everyone was smoking. I coughed loudly and thumped my chest to drop a hint. Everyone ignored me. We all sat there, shoulder to shoulder, bulging mail pouches on our lap, the first bundle of mail in our hand, thumb tucked under the elastic band - ready to hit the ground running. You have to remember: we're not here...