Steve Canavan finds that doing a favour for a friend sends him on a trip down memory lane, interrupted by a rude lady

If someone asks if he is free later, for example, he wouldn’t reply yes or no but would instead say something neutral like, ‘it’s a bit tricky – why?’

He could then find out what it is they wanted before deciding whether to agree to it or not.

Crafty, and something I recalled with regret the other day when I received a call from a friend of mine who has started a new business, and to promote it has had a load of leaflets printed out.

I didn’t know this when he phoned and started the conversation with the words: “Steve, are you doing anything tonight?”

Imagining he was about to suggest heading to a local hostelry to enjoy a pint and a highbrow chat about the relative merits of Chopin and Brahms (or, more likely, which three teams are most likely to get relegated from the Premier League), I replied, “no, I’m free this evening.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ve got 1,000 leaflets to deliver and I need a hand.”

By that point, of course, I had given away the fact I had nothing on and couldn’t get out of it.

Thus it meant that last Friday, when I could have been slumped in front of the television watching The One Show and munching my way through a packet of After Eights, I was instead wandering the streets pushing little bits of paper through the doors of strangers.

But here’s the thing. I really enjoyed it.

It took me back to the days when as a kid I did a paper-round and would spend hours trekking the streets, sticking the local weekly – the Bury Journal – through letterboxes.

For this – about five hours’ labour, not to mention the possibility of a lifelong serious back complaint – I was paid £1.60. Our newsagent owned a BMW convertible and, to this day, I remain convinced he bought it using the money he saved not paying his paperboys properly.

I always enjoyed delivering papers, from getting that lovely dirty ink all over your hands to never quite knowing, in that moment when you popped a paper through a door, whether a salivating Rottweiler was about to remove three of your fingers.

There was one house in a cul-de-sac which gained notoriety among paper lads for containing a dog that was, I swear, about the size of a horse and had the loudest growl I have ever heard (with the exception of the moment Mrs Canavan gets in from work and realises I’ve spent my day off playing guitar instead of decorating the lounge, as promised sometime circa 2009).

There was a sign on the door of the house, which, in quite disturbing and terrifying fashion, read: “Warning – when delivering letters, do not put fingers through letterbox.”

The first time I delivered my paper I didn’t take much notice of this sign, assuming it was a pathetic and slightly dramatic ploy to scare away wannabe burglars.

I was mistaken.

Before I’d even begun to so much as reach for the letterbox, something inside the property began snorting and headbutting the door like a frenzied bull.

I tentatively edged my rolled-up newspaper toward the letterbox before, a nanosecond later, the howling beast inside ripped it from my hands. I can only imagine the proprietor of the house returns home every day to find bits of a butchered Journal strewn around their hall.

The other part of being a paperboy I liked was the week before Christmas. This was the only time during the year you were permitted to knock on the door and personally hand the paper to the homeowner, in the hope they would reach into their wallet or purse and hand over a pound coin as a tip for your wonderful service throughout the previous 12 months.

In reality, about 15 out of 500 folk gave you a few measly coppers – the rest clearly thought a paperboy didn’t deserve a tip and simply took the paper out of my hands with a curt ‘thanks’, then slammed the door in my face.

I got the last laugh, however, by accidentally knocking the wing mirror off their car as I walked back down the driveway.

These paperboy memories came flooding back the other night as I traipsed the streets delivering leaflets.

It was a really enjoyable couple of hours, mainly because I’m quite a nosey bloke and found it great fun to wander up the driveways of total strangers and peer through windows, check out what their lounge furniture is like and what size TV they had.

One thing that has changed from my days as a paperboy, I noted, is that homeowners now seem to love a sign or a sticker in their window.

The majority go for something serious like ‘cold callers are not welcome here’. Fair enough, but what about a bloke who’d spent the night in a freezer, stumbled out and knocked on their door to get help? Would they still say no cold callers in that scenario? Tricky.

My favourite sign was stuck to the porch window of a house and read: “This is a place full of humour and happiness.”

As I pushed my leaflet through the letterbox, I thought “that’s nice” and turned away.

Then I heard the sound of the door opening and I turned to face a woman voice, who barked: “We don’t want leaflets here. And you’ve set the dog off too.”

I had to suppress the urge to suggest she get rid of her sign, or at the very least to insert ‘not’ between the words ‘is’ and ‘a’. Bet she doesn’t give a Christmas tip to her paper boy, no matter what her sign says.