We get our newspapers delivered at home twice a week on Saturday and Sunday and a new girl started the round a few weeks. She has an interesting approach to the Sunday Times — when she folds the paper and its wadge of supplements, she can’t get it through the letterbox, so she just leaves it on the doorstep.
Which would be fine so long as a.) it wasn’t raining and b.) we knew that was what she had done. I staggered downstairs the first time to make a brew and check hallway for papers. Nothing there. Go back to bed. Get up again half an hour later, still no papers.
At 10 o’clock I ring the newsagent who says they send someone round with a copy. Bloke rings the doorbell sometime later, ST in hand, saying that it had been sat outside unread for two hours. I explain that this idea of leaving papers outside, foundling-like, only really works if they put a note through saying that this is what they’ve done.
The girl has since developed a new technique. She again rolls papers and magazines in half lengthwise and jams one end into the letterbox leaving a good two foot ot stick out exposed to the elements. Time for another chat methinks.
But if the above sounds like me winding up to a whinge about newsagents in general and newspaper girls in particular, it isn’t. Quite the reverse.
It’s just a scene setter for me to say that despite everything, I like having a local newsagent and I like having my papers delivered. What I dislike is the prospect of having to get dressed on a Sunday morning just to traipse to Morrison’s to buy a paper which is what might happen if the superstores get their way.