‘“Gopher.” As in, go for it. Fetch things? Surely my entire life as an only daughter of immigrants had prepared me for this.’ Composite: Guardian design/Getty Images View image in fullscreen ‘“Gopher.” As in, go for it. Fetch things? Surely my entire life as an only daughter of immigrants had prepared me for this.’ Composite: Guardian design/Getty Images A job that changed me Australian lifestyle A job that changed me: My year as a ‘gopher’ taught me that all errand runners are holy The work was simple: deliver letters, notices of assessment and other important legal documents, by bicycle. The locations, I came to realise, were varied and inconvenient
Prefer the Guardian on Google A gopher is a small, solitary rodent with large front teeth native to North and Central America. It’s also the name of the job some workplaces give to errand runners (though it’s more usually spelled gofer).
When I was a 21-year-old law student in Canberra, I was in desperate need of casual work. I came across an ad pinned to one of the corkboards outside the library. Bleary-eyed after another all-nighter to finish an assignment, I took down the number of the law firm.
The title itself wasn’t off-putting: “Gopher.” As in, go for it . Fetch things? Surely my entire life as an only daughter of immigrants had prepared me for this. It also seemed like a great way to ride my bike in business hours. Besides, looking at my dwindling bank balance, I didn’t have much choice.
When I turned up to work on my first day in black pants and a crisp ironed shirt, I immediately felt overdressed. The law firm receptionist wore shorts and a jumper proclaiming, I KISSED A VAMPIRE AND I LIKED IT. Well, I liked her. She pointed to a stack of papers marked “gopher’s in-tray”.
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The job, she explained, was simple: deliver letters, notices of assessment and other important legal documents. The locations, I came to realise, were varied and inconvenient.
Some days, I precariously balanced packages on handlebars on my way to the courts. Others, I’d find myself weaving through foot traffic to get to the bank before they closed at their unreasonably early hour. The kind man at the revenue office came to know me by name. Presumably because I was the only out-of-breath twentysomething in a magpie-proof helmet in the waiting area.
About a week into my tenure, I noticed a new inscription on the sheet on the top of the in-tray. It was a file addressed to “G.O.D.”
“God? What’s that?” I asked the receptionist.
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Read more On my bike, valiantly carrying stacks of papers or packages, I did feel – briefly – like the G.O.D. of my email signature. If I didn’t deliver these letters, then very serious legal cases could not continue. Vulnerable clients were relying on me.
Or that’s what I kept telling myself. In truth, when you’re an errand runner people don’t tend to take you seriously. Once the delivery is done, lawyers forget your name. Worse still, they call you by your extended title: “Tuesday Gopher.” While I was sometimes asked to cover reception, my duties never really expanded. Although on one occasion, a paralegal sta…