Is it just ME?

Or are ‘sorry you were out’ delivery notes infuriating?

CALL me paranoid, but I honestly think they do it on purpose. They wait, lurking in their vans, until I can delay no longer, and am obliged to leave the house. I imagine them smiling as they watch me climbing into my car or heading off towards the park, dogs in tow, already tasting victory.

The slip of paper has already been filled in. Writing illegible, naturally, scrawled in Biro as if in haste, as if this wasn’t their evil plan all along, just another part of the global plot to drive me mad. A cursory ring of the doorbell (procedure must be followed), then in it goes, through the letterbox.

Some employ a jaunty, matey tone. ‘Oops, we missed you’, as if they care, as if it wasn’t their sole aim in life to ensure that parcel you’ve been waiting for, that book you ordered, that vital spare part for the Hoover, that thing you paid extra for in order to get next-day delivery, ends up back at their sodding depot or sorting office. And that depot is never somewhere convenient. Always the back end of beyond, invariably on a double-yellow line at the end of a fiendish one-way system, traffic wardens lurking as you dash in with your sorry-you-were-out card, hoping to grab and go.

Instead, you find yourself at the end of a long line, one solitary worker dispensing packages with the urgency of an geriatric snail.

‘Can I see your ID?’ What? ID? Oh God, ID. You didn’t think to bring ID. Isn’t the card enough? No.

You scrabble around in your handbag, you proffer a dry cleaning ticket, smiling hopefully at the gatekeeper. People queuing behind you make loud sighing noises.

Ejected empty handed, you emerge to find a traffic warden putting the finishing touches to a parking ticket.

Teeth gnashing, blood pressure soaring, you drive home. Never mind, you tell yourself, you’ll call and get them to redeliver the following day. Exhausted, you slip your key into your front door, anticipating a calming cup of tea. And there, of course, it is, on the doormat. ‘Sorry you were out ...’

It’s as if their sole aim in life is to ensure your vital parcel ends up back at the depot