Well, I haven’t yet offered up any of my courier-based stories relating to the delights that supermarket home deliveries offer, but it seems opportune to share with you the grocery delivery incident I had last week!

Firstly, the home delivery systems offered by most of the large supermarkets are, by and large, very user-friendly and it certainly seems to be the easiest way of getting a weekly or monthly shopping known to [wo]man! I’ve probably used most of the main ones by now, as I’m a bit of a fickle creature and tend to go with whoever can offer me the most at the point in time that I need it (and I am still talking about my groceries here … I know your mind, dear reader)! That said, I do have my favourite, as my local delivery guy who offers “roll-over” can testify (and I am still talking about my groceries … etc).

Anyway, last week I flitted to a more “value” provider whose courier duly arrived at my door, clipboard and boxes in hand. Thus equipped, he dutifully waited whilst I untangled the main beast (the one creature more fickle in her passions for all things delivered than I) from her best beloved new man, then tricked the puppy into the dining room (yes, there’s now also a puppy) and he then began the ceremonial handing over of boxes. My son, home from his shift at A.N. Other supermarket of European persuasion, kindly stepped in to help and soon we had a bit of a system going, Supermarket-courier-man, my son and I, with the dogs acting as enthusiastic cheerleaders from the sideline confines of the dining room! It all went very smoothly (considering my supplies required unpacking as we went because I’m still trying to be green so I’d eschewed my rights to carrier bags in favour of the more environmentally friendly loyalty points)! With both my son and myself unpacking our goodies from the delivery boxes it seemed only moments before we were waving goodbye to the gentle delivery man and turning back to organise our purchases into our cupboards. At this point the conversation went something like:
Me: Dear son, did you unpack the wine?
Son: Wine? Have we got wine?
Me: It’s for Christmas, did you unpack it?
Son: I haven’t seen it? Can I have one for helping?
Me: It’s for Christmas, did you unpack it?
Son: Oh, no I didn’t!
Me: Are you sure?
Son: No comment but a very disparaging look, almost daring me to go for the pantomime-like challenge his last comment had invited!
We hunted around the kitchen but no wine was apparent. It was then that the penny dropped and I (as you well know from previous posts, being one of those people who does not do running) flew out of the house at a somewhat surprising pace, to catch the nice young delivery man who was still putting his van back in order. He turned, alerted by the sound of wheezing.
“Have you any wine for me, please? We haven’t got the wine!”
He glanced back into the van and almost spammed himself on the forehead: “that’s because I’ve left a box in the van!”
We exchanged relieved smiles as he unearthed the box and carried it up to the door for me, six bottles of white and a box of tea bags.
“Of course” I told him, “it was the tea bags I was worried about, can’t do without tea bags!”
He handed the box to my son who was languishing on the front doorstep and then turned to me with one quizzically raised Roger Moore eye brow. Now anyone who knows me knows that I am horribly honest and can’t lie to save my life, and the whippersnapper’s eyebrow was enough to shame me! I dropped my gaze and came clean.
“I just ran down the street to get my wine, didn’t I?”
He nodded, woefully. I dared to look up at him.
“That doesn’t look good, does it?”
He shook his head, still woeful.
“You won’t tell will you?”
With a tap at the side of his nose and a hero’s knowing smile, Supermarket-courier-man returned to his van and I returned to the kitchen, to count my bottles and hide them from he who’s not getting his hands on them until Christmas!

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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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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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