The Driver's Knock

Taking the Glum Man at DHL at his word, I decided I'd go with the mighty Parcelf Force and duly made arrangements - online no less - to have the parcel picked up between 10.00 and 15.00 today, for delivery tomorrow before noon.

Cost me £38, including full insurance cover, which I guess is OK enough.

The online facility even allowed me to print off my own despatch label, to be put in an envelope by the driver and clagged on the front of the parcel.

I worry about these things. I was up early so as not to miss the driver's knock. They always knock, as if to demonstrate some secret loathing of doorbells. I paced the floor, picking up odds and ends, putting them back down. I find that when I'm waiting for someone to call, I can't settle on anything that might distract me from the Driver's Knock.

Lunch time rolled around and still no Driver's Knock. I checked the phone to see if somehow, perhaps because I'd been playing Michael McDonald's Motown too loudly, Parcel Force had phoned to tell me some bad news about my collection arrangements. No message. I turned Mr McDonald up again and could now actually hear him.

The weary hours dragged by. I looked out at the collared doves sitting wistfully among the tattered leaves of the cherry tree and sympathised. But I didn't dare feed the birds because experience has taught me that the moment I go out into the garden, there will come a Knock at the door which I will not hear.

I shuffled papers on the table, but couldn't find it in me to concentrate on filing them away. Patsy123 will tut when she calls round later today.

She phoned me just after 3 o'clock. That's 15.00. The time when my window of opportunity for parcel collection closed. I was doing the dishes, on the principle that by not showing my agitation, the forces that move in mysterious ways would remind the Parcel Force Driver of their commitment to me and cause him suddenly to Knock like thunder at the door, the words of apology tumbling from his lips.

"I would just phone them up and complain," said the ever-practical and phone confident Patsy123.

I looked up the number in the Phone Book and gave them a call. "We have changed our number," said a Recording.

I rang the new number. "Choose one of the following five options......, " said another Recording. I chose No.1, Tracking Your Order.

"Hello, said a voice, "I am a Recording but you can talk to me as if I were a real person and I will understand."

I hung up and dialled again, this time going for No.5, All Other Enquiries.

A real human female person answered and we chatted amicably about my problem. She promised to ring the Driver and find out what had gone wrong. True to her word, she rang back about five minutes later to say the Driver could be with me in 15 minutes or at 5 o'clock, whichever I preferred. I said, "Fifteen minutes would be good."

"OK," she said cheerfully, "I'll get him to do that. He must not have noticed the collection times on the documentation."

Well that's OK, isn't it? I mean, the collection times are only for my convenience, after all. I fumed a little. Steamed a little. Paced a little more, watching the clock tick away the 15 minutes.

And then there he was. The Driver had Knocked! And he was so nice and friendly, giving me a little bundle of envelopes in case I might need to send more parcels in the future, that I completely forgot to be surly and stern.

The painting has gone, and I can relax, conscious only dimly of the other commitments I've made to get more artwork done. In the horribly near future.

Pre-Coastal Mutterings

King Edward's Bay (oil on board, 36 x 36 ins)

One day last week, the postman used an interesting new technique. Waiting until I went into the garden to feed the birds, he took advantage of the only time I wasn't actually in the house to ring the doorbell and run away. It took me until the end of the week to get to the sorting office to collect my parcel.

Incidentally, why is it that I can only collect my parcels up to 12.30? Presumably the staff don't go home after that. Surely someone could take responsibility for handing over a parcel now and then? It's not as if there's likely to be a long queue of people suddenly forming after 12.30.

Anyway, in an obvious attempt to confuse the hell out of me, the postman woke me up today by hammering on the door. He'd brought another parcel and had forgotten how a doorbell works. It wasn't until after he'd gone that I realised it's Sunday! What are postmen doing delivering on Sunday? I always thought that Sunday deliveries were a sign of a civilised society and bemoaned their curtailment all those years ago. But now they're doing it again without a fanfare. Trouble is I find it difficult enough remembering what day it is, without the Post Office confusing me further.

Today is another trip to the Coast. Donning my most winning smile, I'm off to meet the Patsymum who's visiting Patsy123 at her Tynemouth gaff.

The picture? Patsy123's flat overlooks King Edward's Bay.

Post Apocalypse

Time for a small rant.

What the hell kind of postal system have we got now, where my post for the day comes through the letterbox after 7 o'clock at night? I get back from a night out with the Girls (CJ & Pam) and am immediately suspicious because my front gate is ajar. Who has been calling at my house at night? The postman, that's who! This whole system's barmy. What can I do with post at 11 o'clock at night? He might as well have delivered it in the morning at a time any proper delivery ought to be made.

Aaaargh (and other noises to indicate Old Git status).