Is it just ME?

Or is taking in post for the neighbours a nightmare?

‘Just who orders garden furniture online before going on holiday for a fortnight?’

MY HALL has become a mini assault course. I can’t remember the last time I walked to my front door without cursing. Daily I clamber over huge boxes and crates.

One giant parcel (either a stepladder or a flatpack garden bench and chairs) has been there for two weeks. I like exciting parcels as much as the next woman — but these aren’t mine. And so I’m officially on strike. No more taking in post for the neighbours.

It all starts so innocently: ‘Could you just sign here for 170b?’ asks the postman with his clipboard.

‘ Why, of course,’ you smile. Here’s your chance to be a good Samaritan. You get that warm, fuzzy feeling that you’re helping someone. And then they start unloading the lorry. And wheel in half a house.

‘Whooah,’ you splutter. ‘I’m not sure it will all fit in here.’ But too late. The horse — or rather postman — has bolted. Never mind, you think. I’ll just put a polite note through their door. They’ll be a bit embarrassed. It will all be gone tonight.

Two weeks later. . . nothing. What sort of person orders garden furniture before they go on holiday?

Now I’m not perfect. I’m an internet shopping fiend. But I plan deliveries like a small military campaign, so as not to irritate. If my boxes of organic cat food (for grumpy senior cats) do end up at number 172 by mistake, I’m there with a bottle of wine and grovelling thanks.

The ‘ post game’ is a delicate operation. You only get so many strikes before you’re out. So, dear neighbours at 170b, if you don’t remove the bench by tonight, I’m having a bonfire.