Thursday, 26 March 2009

Away With the Postal Services

Looking at the date of the last post on here, I realize I just do not have the discipline to be a good blogger. When writing becomes a chore rather than a pleasure, then maybe it is time to reconsider the "why" of it all. Anyway, this week I have been mostly tracking a parcel from the US with various robotic, automatic voices, not to mention via the wondrous internet. The fibs these non-humans tell you would make your hair curl, that is if you haven't pulled it out in frustration.

Suffice it to say that my long awaited slip covers set off from their home in America on March 9. Fine, I could track on line and was told that delivery "was attempted at 4.41 a.m. on March 23." Now, I don't know about other parts of the globe, but here in the UK, you won't find a man with a van knocking on anybody's door at that unearthly hour. With pen and Yellow Pages at the ready, I trawled the lists to seek inspiration as to which carrier here would possibly take over from the USPS, when along came the postman with a letter. Bear with me.

The letter told me that Parcel Force had my parcel and had paid duty on it to Customs; they would deliver when I paid them back. Ransome, no less, plus £8.00 for doing me a favour. Armed with a telephone number, I rang and did that, being electronically assured (what!) that it would arrive with me March 25. So I waited and waited, and finally rang to track progress. "Your delivery has been rescheduled" said the tinny, smug robot at the end of the phone line.

"To hell with this for a game of tin soldiers" fumed I. Back to Yellow Pages and get a number for their headquarters. Finally, I spoke to a human being. She noted that payment had been made, the parcel had been "forgotten, sorry" and that she personally would go and put it for the man with the van to bring to me today, March 26. I am waiting, and waiting and hoping. I may compose one of those jokes about postal services, you know, along the lines of "How many...does it take to...?"

1 comment:

  1. As I progress into doddering seniority I hear from my lips more and more often: "Nobody does their job anymore."