EVER SO SLIGHTLY P.O.ED

Really, really not important in the great scheme of things, but, well...
Oh, you know...

Regular visitors to me here in Lesser Blogfordshire (and there are at least two of you) will know of my continuing mild irritation at the minor frustrations that home shopping can bring out of the woodwork, and sadly, I’m here tapping out another slight tale of woe for you today.

You may want to look away now, put your face into your palm or scream “Oh no! Not again!” at this point depending on preference.

During a recent lunchbreak, I took it upon myself to take advantage of a slight gap between the downpours to open up my front door and take a breath of fresh air before returning to my duties and toils in the pursuit of that crust I try to earn.

As I opened the door, there was a slight fluttering sensation in the corner of my eye as a piece of red and white cardboard took flight from the door jamb that had it held feebly in its grip and span ever so elegantly towards the doorstep at my feet.

I bent down to examine it, knowing fully well already what it would be, and I was right. It was a Post Office “Sorry you were out when we tried to deliver your parcel” card. Of course, the assumption behind this statement is that I was actually out, which of course, being dedicated to my desire of crust earning, I was not, but I know very well from past experience that this is something I must learn to live with.

The part of the house I converted into my office space is about as far from the front door as it is possible to be in such a tiny space and so sometimes the feeble tappings that come from our solid metal brass effect door-knocker fail to penetrate the vast distances required and I don’t hear them.

The other issue is of course the lack of a letterbox.

Having suffered the howling gales of far too many winters hereabouts, when we decided to buy new doors and windows from the lovely double glazing people a few years ago, we chose not to have one on that door because of the draughts that used to scream through the old door, aiming to pass straight through us on their way to the chimney and out of our lives. Most of our legitimate postal deliveries came through the back door anyway, so we decided such an opening was unnecessary.

It doesn’t half confuse those lovely people delivering pizza flyers, though.

For some reason, though, some of our parcel delivery couriers prefer to use that door to not deliver their packages to, whilst others use the other one, but there’s seldom any consistency to this and, like a lot of things these days, we’re learning to live with it. Meanwhile they hide their cards under and behind plant pots or sometimes just put them on the step where they’re sure to blow away or, as in this case, attempt to jam them into the slight gap around the door frame and the door itself. I don’t know, but I like to think that if it was me, I might just go and look if there was another letterbox somewhere, not least because there is bound to be one somewhere on most houses I would have thought, but I think my expectations are way too high generally.

Anyway, I picked the card up and read that they tried to deliver this mystery object at 11.00AM (at which time I can assure you, I was very much in) but because I am not psychic enough to have known this beforehand, said package would be returned to the Post Office where I could collect it later.

Now, since the local Post Office that was a short hoppity-skip away was closed due to lack of interest a couple of years ago, at about the same time they took the morning bus away (on the very day that Greater Blogfordshire announced its new exciting plans for better public transport I might add), I now have a five mile round trip to make if I need to make these collections. Interestingly, at a bureaucratic stroke of a pen or two, two of the reasons that made this house so ideal when I chose to buy it, i.e. good transport links and a local Post Office, were suddenly removed without me having any influence at all over the matter. The bus service that was so vital to the few to whom it was essential was “no longer viable” and the Post Office probably would have still closed even if I personally had gone in every single day because, unless everyone else did as well, little old me would not viability have made.

Strangely, of course, for many people now to be able to get to the nearest available Post Office, that redundant bus route would have proved ideal.

Dear old anonymous Postie had helpfully written a number 2 in the blank spot on the card which said that I should leave it a (blank) number of hours before trying to collect it.

“Oh goody!” thunk I, “’tis a quarter to two. That’s nearly three hours!” so I decided to forsake my little lunchtime tea-break/breath-of-fresh-air combo and grabbed the car keys and dragged myself to the Post Office to collect this still mysterious delight from them.

Sadly, the Postie had lied to me. Their “2” was, at best, a vague guesstimate and they were still out and about on the streets of Lesser Blogfordshire writing their little cards and failing to deliver their consignment of wonders to their eager future owners, and I had to return home empty-handed with the mocking laughter of the counter staff still ringing in my ears.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! They had laughed, “You don’t expect them to be able to tell the time as well, do you?”

Frankly, when it’s my time they’re wasting, then, yes, I darned well do! Why on Earth would you write a “2” if you didn’t mean a “2”? It’s not as if I wouldn’t have been quite content if they’d written a “6” to head over there after 5.00PM, is it?

Anyway, I had to go back later, and braved their inevitable mocking tones once more, and I didn’t completely grind my teeth to a pulp in an effort to keep myself calm and not cause a scene when they did.

After all, it’s not as if customer service is something important or worth getting worked up about, is it?