Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Chain reaction.

It's not too far off Christmas, and the deliveries are arriving thick and fast from all my internet purchases. I much prefer to buy online and avoid those late Thursday night sessions where each and every shopping mall is like a scene from "Dawn of the Dead" but with the zombies laden down with plastic carrier bags full of junk that will be broken by Boxing Day or will remain unloved in a cupboard until it finds its way onto eBay or Freecycle.

A knock at the door sends me scurrying around the house collecting various pieces of clothing at random, from the random places that they were discarded in the first place. I say "scurrying" in that, as much as a sufferer of plantar fasciitis, wearing one shoe, can actually scurry. It's generally a mix of tackling stairs sideways, and hopping, and hobbling, and generally trying not to overstretch anything in the heel, calf, or foot.

I arrive at the door, unlock it, open it, and find a postman frantically trying to unjam the parcel that he has already tried to jam through my letterbox, with the added difficulty of the fact that the door is now moving away from him. We exchange pleasantries, as if the postman is actually giving me a parcel (I always find that a strange feeling I have when parcels arrive... as if it's from the deliverer themselves... I guess that would by why the saying "Don't shoot the messenger" came about? - Don't kiss the postman for delivering a parcel that you bought and paid for yourself).

We arrange a suitable "secret" location for the postman to leave subsequent packages in, in the event that I might not be around at some point when he tries to deliver them. He's concerned that he will have to carry parcels around and take them back to the Post Office at the end of his round (ironically, this is his job) but it is a real ball-acher to have to go and collect them, so we give the secret handshake and nudge nudge..... third stone on the left......

I've truckled over the cat banishment issue. If mum, on the other side of the world thinks it might not be suitable treatment, although it was originally suggested by her, then far be it from me to argue. Forget the hours that we (Dawn and I) have spent cleaning and dusting and disinfecting and hoovering and making nice the house for their return, or the fact that we could, instead, have spent those precious few hours that we might have had together to do something more pleasant.

I go to sort out the animals. It would appear that I have lost another chicken. To lose one chicken is unfortunate, but to lose three is downright carelessness. The cats have puked all over the Rayburn again and I dash round feeding them and cleaning up their vomit. As fast as I can, I leave them eating their Felix, and head for home.

A "We have a parcel for you" card is shoved through my letter box from those lovely people at City Link. They are possibly the world's worst couriers, and I rarely EVER receive a hassle free delivery from them. I missed them by about the amount of time it takes to clean up a pile of cat vomit (three minutes to be exact).

I am further frustrated by not being able to speak to a real person and to find out if the van driver is still in my vicinity and whether I could meet him to get the parcel.

A robotic voice on the other end of the phone suggests that they may try to deliver it again tomorrow if the wind is blowing in the right direction, but of course, they can't intimate a time.... that would be far too sensible!!

5 comments:

  1. a very entertaining read. i chuckled no end. i hope the cats are ok.

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  2. I'm not bloody back yet. There's plenty more bile to be spilled after Friday when I get back to the safety of my own "turf".

    Roll on Friday is what I say!!

    FoX

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  3. What's happening with Rol on Friday?

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