Well now, as I continue to be extremely thrifty (but still on the law-abiding side of this, let me assure you), this week has seen the start of my move to become more self-sufficient in the kitchen area – no, not clearing up after myself but actually growing-my own (produce, not kitchen). Technically I had already started, but I’ve only managed to grow one lettuce so far, so I think it’s fair to say that I am more than one lettuce short of a full harvest, even in self-sufficiency circles!

Anyway, promoted by the recent break in the weather and the resultant high winds, which have mercilessly shaken the majority of the apples from the stout little apple tree we inherited when we moved in, I decided not to waste my windfalls but to investigate recycling these chubby little sours into chutney. If you are not impressed by this, I will further attempt to do so by revealing that I have not only been saving my old jam and pasta sauce jars in anticipation of the chance to preserve something (possibly my husband’s sense of humour), but I have also been harassing my mum for hers!

So, after an exhausting time rescuing my fruits from the garden, ergo the dog (who regards anything small and round on the grass as a ball and therefore a game of six-circuit-chase-around- the-mimosa-tree before dropping it, is required), I gathered my culinary implements around my cauldron only to discover that apparently I need extras, including little waxed discs to put between the chutney and the jar lid, to stop the vinegar acting up with the lid to get my chutney, er, in a pickle, so to speak.

Undeterred, I postponed the hubble-bubble for a couple of days and hopped onto that well-known internet auction site to do a quick investigation into the price of my absent essentials. I happily perused the [actually not very] interesting range of these and then began a comparison in earnest between costs, including the delivery. Now some sellers give more detail than others and one, who is clearly proud of having a 24 hour delivery service, had added some small print to clarify what 24 hour delivery actually means. In amongst his diatribe (and anything that starts with the words “as some small minded people quibble about what a 24 hour courier service means, let me make it plain…” surely has to be a diatribe) was an explanation as to how 24 hour refers to time taken to dispatch, with the disclaimer that issues occur because the retailers are “not perfect, we are human” – quite right and fair enough, it happens, and couriers “well, they are a law unto themselves” uh, oh – surely not right and fair enough?

Since I have been confined to home more (illness, dear reader, not electronic tagging), I have met a variety of delivering type callers from week to week, so feel that the comments in the listing seem to pass a harsh judgement on a whole body of well-meaning professionals (well, at least all of those that I have met so far, and I can assure you that I’ll let you know about it if I meet one that isn’t!) So, it only seems fair for the right of reply to be thrown out into courier-land: what do you make of that remark? Or (and possibly more fun) if you were a law unto yourselves, what are the laws you would pass, in respect of those that you deliver for, and those who you deliver to? This could be very interesting ….!

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So, last week, I was working away at the computer in the dining room (front of the house), faithful hound drooling at my side, when we both heard the flapping of something exciting fall through the letter box. The hound made it to the front door first (you know by now of her love of delivering men of all natures), closely followed by myself – a little unsteady on my feet following recent illness. We found ourselves staring at one of Royal Mail’s ‘sorry you were out ….’ cards, then at each other. Out? Called? Sorry? Clearly not, it would appear. I opened the door to see Mr. Royal Mail driving away as if from pole-position. Hmmm.

Now, I can honestly say this is not the first time this has happened to me. Previously I was actually standing behind the closed front door when the card came through the flap. Quick as a flash I opened the door to the retreating postie, immediately questioning his calling tactics. “Your bell’s not working” he pointed out, very reasonably. I felt I was equally reasonable when I pointed out that I had no bell, but a knocker and he had obviously been carrying just the card and not my parcel as he was, now, empty handed. He sheepishly conceded that during general working hours, it’s anticipated that the majority of people are not in to accept deliveries, so he had not worried about bringing out my parcel as I’d be at work. Good plan, just not in the school holidays though.

My question is, is this common practice among delivery men, be they courier chains, private or independent couriers or part of a national delivery service? Is there a kind of professional knock-down Ginger that anticipates no-one will answer the door anyway, so at times of convenience, it is the card and not the parcel that comes to the front door? Only you guys can settle this question, so it’s over to you …. !

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Now here’s an interesting episode. I was hanging out the washing when there was a loud knock at the front door, resulting in my dog hurtling to the front of the house to pant a greeting through the door to whoever was on the other side. I followed meekly behind and opened said door to find a postman of the summer-short-wearing-variety standing on the step. As the dog relentlessly welcomed him, he handed me my post and greeted me by my first name (having read it from the envelope that was too large to come through the letter box). He then walked away with nary another word, nor pat to the dog – who was beside herself with affection as she has a particular thing for men in shorts (Disclaimer: I have neither responsibility nor familiarity for this particular fetish of hers, thank you). Clearly unimpressed with the brevity of his visit and lack of response to her obvious adoration, she bounded down the path in pursuit. Normally obedient, but on this occasion completely ignoring my best Joyce Grenfell crossed with fish-wife method of command, the beast was clearly heart set on a knee licking with this one, so I was forced to follow down the path to retrieve her. At this point there was a bang from the front door. The now-shut front door. The postman turned to face me.

“The door’s shut” he announced.

“That’s not good,” I replied, as it seemed useful to identify this as a problem, to a potential rescuer.

However, the postie’s earlier familiarity of apparent first-name terms was then lost as he gave me a curt nod, turned heel and continued on his merry way, leaving me with a collection of post in one hand, and a squirming dog, held by her collar, in another.

The builder from next door looked over the fence. “I don’t have a rope” he stated matter-of-factly.

“It’s OK” I smiled “I’m just locked out, not suicidal.”

He looked at me blankly and nodded in the beast’s direction. “For the dog.”

“Oh.” I pondered my dilemma as he returned back to his important work with a bucket and spade (I’m really not kidding)!

Ultimately, dear reader, my return to my humble abode was achieved by my testing of the security features of my back fence, as accessed from the road behind, having trailed one handful of dog and one handful of post up my road and back down the one behind, all in my slippers. The fence (thankfully on this occasion) failed the security test by facilitating a gap big enough for me to first shove said dog and post through and then climb through myself. However I reached only half way in, before the dog decided to come back through the same gap. Now she’s a big girl: laid end to end I am the smaller, so her return trip resulted in some kind of push-me-pull-you type creature (bottom end of me and top end of her) left poking out on the road side. Enter courier-man, happily delivering in the next street: “Are you ok?”

Unsure which end of which of us he was addressing, I maintained my dignity (as if I had any left at this point) and mumbled “yes thank you” just as the dog decided that this one was indeed the man of her dreams and shoved herself all the way back through to show him so, consequently scraping the whole of one of my legs along the rough edge of the fence panel in the process.

Kind courier man held her collar whilst I righted myself, then inserted her back through the gap and secured it on the road-facing side by means of careful replacement and propping with stones, whilst I thanked him through gritted teeth as I pulled the most immediately painful splinters out of the leg. He gave us both a fantastic grin and “no problem” before he too went on his merry way.

So, post- man 0, courier-man 1: chivalry at the roadside is alive and kicking as a result of this episode (although the dog’s days may well be numbered)!

This is a true event in my life, so how about one of yours? Have you, as a courier, happened to be in the right place at the right time, to help out in a crisis or damsel, if not deranged dog-owner, in distress? Do tell!

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