Post Office Blues

So, readers familiar with our forums will already know that I’ve had a bit of a saga over trying to get my freaking official keypad. To cut a long story short, I ordered it from Play. Then I discovered that it wasn’t going to be sent by them so I ordered one from Game which was sent on Tuesday and still hadn’t arrived by yesterday evening.  Anyway, I also ordered a couple of 360 games from ShopTo for a vague relative playing Santa. That was yesterday and to their credit, ShopTo have got the games to me the next day (even though I’m in Northern Ireland).

Unfortunately, my postman is a nob.

When you have parcels to sign for they knock on your door right? Ask you to sign a little thingy and hand over the goods? Not if you’re my postman, you just put a stupid little red card through the door that says “I wasn’t in when you tried to deliver the thing”. Like it was my fault. You then wave at me through the door (I’m not making this up, he was fecking teasing me) and then bugger off to christ knows where because you’d completely friggin’ disappeared when I found the card amongst my junk mail and chased after you, you lying piece of donkey juice.

So the card says there are 3 parcels waiting for me at my local post office counter which is just up the road from me, about 5 minutes walk. Not a big deal, I put my shoes on and stomped towards the post office, reading the card as I go which tells me I need ID, so back to the house to hunt for my driving license. When I finally get to the post office, with my ID, I have to wait in a queue for about 20 bloody minutes while the two old ladies in front of me (who have absolutely no business still being alive at their age) fumble in their handbags for something pertinent to their visit to the post office and talk about bacon. Bacon! Who talks about bacon in the bleedin’ post office?!

By the time the smug-faced old trout calls me to the little window (I hate these windows, I’m not going to punch you in the face over the price of a first class stamp, you can dispense with the maximum security routine) I am incandescent with rage. I am thinking very dark thoughts about what I could do with that pen they keep chained to the desk. Take a deep breath. I present my stupid little card to the fascist bitch behind the glass who goes into the little back room for about 5 minutes and bounces all the parcels off every surface she can find. She comes back empty handed to tell me and says, hold on, I’ll quote her exact words:

“You’re too early, he’s not back yet, you’ll have to come back later”

Let’s just pull that sentence apart.

“[I’m] too early” So it’s my fault, of course it is, how dare I go about my business in a prompt and timely fashion.

“He’s not back yet” so the post man isn’t back yet? fair enough, why didn’t it tell me to leave it a few hours on the fecking card? more to the point, why did you have to go and stir the parcel room if the post man hasn’t come back yet? He has to walk past you to get in there and he wears a massive blue coat and carries a huge, bright red bag, not easy to miss.

“[I’ll] have to come back later”. Splendid, I’ll just inconvenience myself because you’re all too stupid to do your job shall I? Why not. Would you like me to take a bag of mail back with me and deliver it on the way home for you too?

So anyway, after a long and purposeful stare into the eyes of the hariden at the counter I decide the best course of action is probably not to wreck the place. “What time should I come back” I say, choking back the tears of rage and trying desperately to block out the voices in my head. “I don’t know” she replies.

Now that sentence is weird enough in this context. If she doesn’t know who will? Should I just return at twenty minute intervals for the rest of the day until I strike it lucky and find my parcels? So, it was weird enough to ask that question right, but it wasn’t the words that hurt the most, it was her tone. “I don’t know” but she said it like I was a retard for asking. Like it was insulting to her that I would expect her to be able to put an approximate timeframe on the events of her working day.

“Well, should I come back at 1 O’Clock or 4 O’Clock?” I’m giving them plenty of scope, the place closes at 5 so I couldn’t really come back much later than that could I?

“I don’t know” Those words again. Should I just pull her through the security window and kick her to death? would that be easier?

I stare at her, for what feels like an hour and a half. I’ve made a decision: I’m not moving or saying another word until she volunteers more information. Still staring, this is getting a bit uncomfortable now, I feel like I might be slowly turning to stone. Finally! She shapes her mouth to speak, a bead of sweat forms on my top lip and I lean forward in anticipation of her insight into the modern workings of the postal system.

“We have no control over them”

I nearly cried.

Without saying another word I picked up my card, turned on my heels and walked swiftly from the shop. They have CCTV in there you know, and I couldn’t be sure I’d remain at liberty if I’d pressed the issue any further. So now I’ve spent £80 in internet purchases and I’ve got a little red card and a smug post man to show for it. The worst part is I’ve got to go back to that post office at some as yet undecided point this afternoon to retrieve my parcels and I just know it will be the same evil witch that calls me to her maximum security booth.