Until about 10.15 this morning I was broadly supportive of the Royal Mail strike action. I mean, clearly I don't actually know anything about this: we buy the papers at the weekend but I can't say that I tend to spend the ten minutes I (on average) have actually to read them studying the ins and outs of postal industrial action. I'm more of a skim through the political stuff, read the family section, cut out the recipe sort of girl. Don't bother with the fashion any more either, but that's probably another story.
Anyway, as I say, from a position of very little knowledge I kind of felt sorry for your average postie. I'd read a couple of articles (see? I do know something about it!) by posties putting their point of view (significantly more articulately than our personal postie would have done mind) and I could see where the grievances came from. I sympathised with the "last mile" predicament, and I'd huffed and puffed about the inaccurate techniques for measuring the weight they're carrying. I even felt strongly enough in support of them to have a mild disagreement with my friend EB about it. She won; but then she normally does.
Well not any more.
I came downstairs at 10.10 this morning to find one of those little red cards on the doormat:
"Sorry, you were out. We called at 10.15".
Well, sorry too, but we weren't and you didn't. We were here, all five of us. Admittedly upstairs, but the house isn't so big you don't hear the thunderous battering ram knock of your average postman wherever you are. And there was no knock.
And, quite frankly, nor did you call at 10.15. Unless that little red van is also a time machine. Because it's not actually 10.15 yet, sunshine, and I've been standing here for at least a minute swearing at the thought of having to take three small children up to the "conveniently located" delivery office a 45 minute walk away on Monday morning.
So I thought I'd stick my head out to see, if, perchance, the chronologically-challenged one was still there. He was, idling away in his red time machine just outside our door. I shrieked and waved (in a ladylike manner naturally). Only to watch him drive away. Taking my parcel with him.
Or not. If you believe, which I am rapidly learning to, that they never have the parcels with them anyway.
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