Well, this week’s exchange with courier world completely passed me by, but offered a real head-turning experience to my husband! Let me explain ….

The summer holidays are upon us so, in a temporary respite from the on-going joys of secondary classrooms, Himself and Myself are at home! In anticipation of being ‘around’ this week, I had arranged the delivery of required necessities for a project of the spend-now-to-save-later-kind, of which I am becoming an expert and my husband becoming a despairing onlooker. So, the expected parcel arrived with all due ceremony but with this week’s difference being that I did not have to rush to the front door and try to save the poor innocent courier man from the very enthusiastic (not to mention very forward) advances of our dog, but was able instead to detain her in the kitchen whilst my husband answered the door. After a few moments came the sound of the front door closing and Himself appeared in the kitchen, hoicking his trousers in a manly fashion and with a strange look on his face.

“Well” he exclaimed “that was unexpected!”

I began my usual defence about the necessity of parcel items but he waved away my argument.

“Not that,” I’m sure he rolled his eyes at this point. “That courier….he wasn’t a normal courier man.”

Now, that’s interesting – I’m sure between us at Find My Courier we could (and should) write a checklist on what is involved in being a ‘normal’ courier – is there a type, as clearly some clarification is in order? Anyway …

“He was wearing one of those …. you know…. a yellow one …” he made a strange gesture around his arm pits.
“High vis vest?” I offered helpfully.
“Well, no …. not high-vis but it was a vest, you know, with no sleeves, so lots of bits were high-vis, not the vest, his body … he clearly wanted to show off his tan and his muscles, and he clearly wasn’t expecting me to answer the door. He was dressed like a Chippendale.”

My eyes popped. “As in American, stripper type or old, wooden armoire type?” Clarification was everything at this point, what with the mental image I was building and all.
“All vest and body and smiles, you know …. all, all … swarthy.”

Swarthy! Here is Himself describing Courier-man in the manner of a Jackie Collins bodice ripper, I don’t know who was more surprised, myself or the dog but I do know that by this time she and I were both kicking ourselves (and she was definitely kicking me) for having missed this.

“And do you know what he said?” Again trouser hoicking, clearly his umbridge was bristling. Such body language made it very difficult to hazard a polite guess, it appeared that along with the package, some kind of green eyed monster had been delivered, and asking the question implied that ‘not the normal courier man’ could not have conversed along the standard “I need a signature here, guv” lines, but perhaps the more swarthy approach of: “stand aside, buffoon, I have a special package for the lady of the house.”

I shook my head mutely, I think I may have been pondering the latter.

“He said …” Himself drew to his full height with rising indignation. “It’s heavy … can you manage it?”

I was still mute, largely because I was biting my tongue and both lips to prevent myself from laughing out loud. I think I managed “and …?” to show encouragement.

“So, of course I managed – it’s in the hall and it’s a big one.”

I gave suitable thanks to soothe the ruffled ego whilst Himself waxed further lyrical about the Chippendale of Courier-world, in terms of description that old Jackie would blush before using until, finally, the moment passed. I thanked him quietly again for his help.

“That’s ok. Don’t try to pick it up, if you want it moved give me a shout …. I’m just going to get on up the garden now.” He paused at the back door, dog now at his side, as if her loyalties had never been tempted elsewhere. “By the way, do we have any liniment; I think I might have pulled something?”

As ever, I’d be glad to know your thoughts about the courier-type issues raised in this further true life event – yes, this really is my life! In particular about the ‘normalities’ of Courier-world and interpretations of a ‘high vis’ dress code – I’d love to know!

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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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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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