The Postman Only Rings Twice

Living, as I am, in a world filled with war and strife, in a country where the government seems to have gone barking mad, I thought I'd write and explain why, on a work-day, I am sitting at home in my bathrobe.

That's right, I'm waiting for a package to be delivered.

The first time I was introduced to this quaint custom was upon our return from a fortnight's holiday.  The very next day, after returning from work, we found a card stuck to our door admonishing us for being out while a deliveryman had tried to leave a package.  Why he couldn't simply leave the package in the cupboard beside the door like all the postmen do, I can't imagine, but I suspect it's how they inject a bit of life into their otherwise soul-crushingly boring jobs.

The card, by the way, contained no useful information.  No name, no phone number, no tracking number (even though there were boxes for all this information--but I suspect that's all part of the game). It merely guaranteed they would attempt delivery again the next day, while we were both at work.

The second notice, again, stated the obvious; "We were here, we weren't. No package for you!"  Printed on the card was their promise to not attempt another delivery and the assurance that they would return the package to sender if I did not retrieve it within two weeks.  It also contained a web address, so I looked it up.  (The fact that I would have been completely stuffed if they had attempted delivery during our holiday, or if I didn't have Internet access was not lost on me, as it seemed to be on them.)

Their website contained a number.  I called it.  It was busy.  I called again.  It was still busy.

For the next three days I called the number, sometimes for stretches of half an hour at a time, and never got through.  With the clock ticking, I returned to their website and dug through the site index for any helpful information.  All I found was a second number, buried deeply within the "Contact Us" page hierarchy.  This second number put me in touch with a computer and a 45-minute quiz.  After three attempts at shouting inane answers into the phone, the computer finally agreed to mail my package to a local Post Office, where I could pick it up, at my convenience, for a fee.

At least I knew the location and business hours of the Post Office so, after paying the ransom, I lugged my prize home.  The only satisfaction I received was the knowledge that the deliveryman had had to hump the heavy box up and down two flights of stairs, twice.  It was small compensation, and from then on I lived in fear of another delivery.  It was sure to happen; the Christmas season was approaching and that means packages, lots of them.

My fears were realized last Friday.  Ironically, my wife and I had taken the day off to celebrate Thanksgiving.  At 11:30, we stepped out of our flat to do some shopping.  At 11:33 (yes, that's the time on the card) the deliveryman struck.  I can't be certain what lengths these guys will go through to brighten up their day but I don't discount the notion of them hiding around the corner in the hopes of catching you out.

This note contained a tracking code, however, and a phone number with a live person on the other end.  "These people," I innocently thought, "understand customer service."  What I couldn't have guessed at the time was that they simply enjoyed frustrating you in person.

I explained to the woman that a delivery had been attempted and asked how I could get the package.

"They'll deliver it Monday,"  Of course!  Everyone in Britain is independently wealthy or related to the royal family or both and do not require the inconvenience of employment.

"And what will happen when I'm not here?"

"They'll send it back to where it came from."  She said this as if it made perfect sense, her tone implying it would be my fault should this occur.

"What are my other options?"

"You can pick it up here."  'Here' was a fair distance away, but it seemed the only course of action.

"All right, I happen to be free right now, I'll be there in an hour or so."

"Oh, you can't pick it up today."

"Why not?"

"The package is still on the truck, isn't it?" she said.

"Fucking hell!" I said, and hung up.

This is why I'm sitting here, wasting a day's vacation time, unable to go out or step in the shower for fear the doorbell will ring and my last chance at getting this package will be lost.

And the most depressing thing is, it's not even December yet.

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