Friday, 5 January 2018
Sorting Office Blues.
The staff at Royal Mail must remember me. I can tell that by the way they hate me!
Yesterday I managed to find time to hobble down to the sorting office, little red card in hand, to collect the goods that were ''its too large for your letterbox." He did not add "I was too stupid to read the note above the bell saying "BELL BUST: KNOCK LOUD" so I rang the bell and got no answer."
'He' being a new young lad who looked lost while trying to find his way around the 'walk.' Why he was on it and not the regular man was not made clear.
Anyway I dragged myself up to the counter enquiring as to the goods of which I had no knowledge.
"We don't have them" said the attractive blonde young lady working behind the anti-gunman/knifeman/violent person/weirdo screen.
"You must have them," said I "As you left me this card."
I thought this example of reality would aid her understanding.
It did not.
It crossed my mind that few attractive young women become postmen and I wondered why she had not been there when I did the hard walks from this office with never a word of complaint?
I gave up this thought when a second thought crossed my mind, that thought muttered 'She was still in school when you worked here' and I let the matter drop.
"It is not logged on our system," she explained, as if that was an answer.
I indicated that I had once worked in this place and I understood the efficiency of postmen therefore the system may not be telling the truth.
My understanding of the situation was clear, the goods were in the building yet not on the system, "Why not go look at where they ought to be" said I using common sense and deep understanding of how postmen, especially relatively new ones, operate.
This brought an excuse re the 'new system and way of work' meant that if not on the system they could not be 'here,' that fooled no-one, especially me.
In the end she photocopied the card, and promised to identify the eejit postman and make enquiries, she took my number, I had already taken hers, as it were.
This morning I awoke full of joy and happiness as always.
Well OK, I awoke.
The call from the postman never came, this did not surprise me as I know how busy they can be early in the day and how passing the buck and avoiding contact with the public is always a good thing, however I planned to await the delivery from the man himself which would come in due course.
I therefore checked about 10:40 as the regular man often arrives at this time but nothing was to be seen but dust.
Later my neighbour arrived and I mistook his entrance for the man. This neighbour has been back home in the Ivory Coast for around six weeks, "Some holiday," I said looking at the woman with him, "No, this is my wife."
I congratulated the lucky man and wife (who sadly only speaks French) and wished them well. The thought also crossed my mind that I will not go to the Ivory Coast on holiday if it means a French speaking wife returns with me!
I sat here awaiting the postman's knock (Insert joke here) and continued my half asleep ravings on this laptop.
I heard no knock.
After lunch (around three in the afternoon) I was forced out to buy bread, here I found my mail with another wee red card with ''its too large for your letterbox" scrawled upon it, and the time of 12:20 indicated on the back of the card.
I was HERE at my desk at that time!
At this point re-read the bit about notes re knocking on door and not ringing bell. It's his neck that requires ringing !!!!
The brutes at the office never phoned but I suspect they have found said item, which I now know to be a large white hard envelope containing a calendar, and have passed it on to the man to deliver.
So tomorrow I will trudge wearily once more down to the big fat bearded miserable lump who will be on duty instead of the attractive young lass to enquire if they have done their job properly!
I may indicate displeasure, I may point out such incompetence is wrong, I may indicate that before privatisation things were better, I might mutter about knowing the manager (actually I don't and the new ones I know are rubbish), I certainly will resist indicating the name of the postman who once delivered to 'Walnut Grove' the mail that ought to have gone to 'Chestnut Grove.' That will remain confidential!
Accidents will happen....