Confessional

What the parcel delivery driver thinks about you

I THOUGHT this would be an easy job, but I sometimes feel I’m trapped in one of those fairytales where the task is never completed. I start at 8am, load up my van and deliver up to 70 parcels in a day.

I deliver from 9am, but I’m always amazed by how many people are running late getting kids to school, or even still in their pyjamas. I’ve lost count of the people I see with their hair everywhere, half-dressed, in onesies. It’s like they think I can’t see them.

If we didn’t have to get signatures it’d be easier. Nobody’s signature is readable. I could just sign it myself, though I don’t.

Occasionally people beg us to leave parcels in bins, or round the back, but there are plenty of opportunists. I dropped a parcel with a kindly middleaged neighbour; she was very well spoken and said she’d look after it for her ‘friend’. She later denied all knowledge of it.

What strikes me is how few people offer to help. They’ll ask if I can bring in their solid oak coffee table, but won’t give me a hand. Men try to be ‘one of the lads’ and banter with me, while women flap about, discussing what they’ve bought. Truth is, I don’t want to be their friend, I just want to get on with the next delivery.

Often, angry customers will say: ‘Where have you been?’ But I have no control over when their parcel gets delivered.

I get home about 8pm. It’s a tiring, badly-paid job and it’s nice when someone actually says ‘thanks’.