Whenever we’re expecting a parcel from Amazon or anyone else, we inevitably find a card on the doormat telling us that we were out.
This is really annoying because we are inevitably “in” at that time in the morning, but the post office swears blind that they tried the bell and no-one answered.
We know this to be untrue because we have a dog who goes bananas if someone so much as puts the key in the door, while the bell has him woofing headache-inducing decibels as he skitters full-tilt at the door.
Apart from telling us wrongly that we were out, the card goes on to instruct us that we can collect our parcel from the sorting office after 11am. This is no big deal in itself as said office is only a few minutes walk from our home, but it does rather defeat the point of having a postal service.
And what if we couldn’t make the narrow window of opportunity they call opening hours? Especially on Saturday when they close at noon. There has been at least one occasion when I had to stand my ground and wait for the returning postman for a delivery that my daughter needed that evening, not Monday morning.
I have complained, of course, not that this got me very far. The man on the desk was adamant that our rung doorbell had gone unanswered, but today Mrs P caught them red handed.
She spotted the postman’s shadow through the glass in the front door which she opened to find him already filling in the “you were out” card.
Her blustered the excuse that he always started completing the card card before he rang the bell, just in case there was no-one in which as excuses go was about as flimsy as an airmail letter. (Anyone else remember them?)
He did manage to blush an appropriate pillarbox red though. It felt like a minor victory in the ongoing war against life’s little irritants, although no doubt normal non-service will be resumed soon.