Royal Mail, if we’re fair, has grown somewhat lazy and feckless in recent years. The loss of the second delivery was bad enough, but now it seems that any delivery is too much to ask for, at least in Netherfield.
The other weekend, our postman knocked on our door at 8:30-ish and I, being the lively chap that I am, crawled out of bed to answer their call. Upon opening the door I was informed that, “I didn’t think anyone’d be in, so I haven’t brought your package.”
This, understandably, confused and upset me, and I told them so. I then suggested that going and fetching my package would be a good idea, something which, it must be said, didn’t appeal to our postman very much. I was informed that I could do their job for them and retrieve it from the sorting office on Monday morning.*
This prompted an outburst along the lines of, “What? Tell you what, how about this instead? You do the job you’re paid for and fetch my post, and in return I won’t lodge a formal complaint about you and your apparent inability to understand what is required of you; namely, the delivery of post.” It wasn’t the most diplomatic response, I admit, but what the hell did they expect? Lazy fucker.
*Not in so many words, but that was the gist of it.
To add to the wonders of Royal Mail, our postlady comes form nearly an hour away to post letters to four streets in my town. They pay for her travel expenses of £78.00 per day to get here. I’m outraged. On the upside, she is very pleasant even though shes chooses to wear nothing under her luminous jacket and we are talking 42FF breasts, approximately. Furthermore, she doesn’t wear tight, ball-crushing white shorts with shaven legs and white slip-ons with fake tanned legs and a gold chain that adorns the male alternative.
Are you sure they’re posties and not simply destitutes?