A queue for a ticket for the ‘must see’ gig / match / performance (delete as appropriate to your own interest) can be fun, as indeed can be the subsequent queue, with ticket safely in hand, for such an event itself. These queues have a vibe of their own, you can’t help but be caught up in the anticipation, purpose and optimism of the snaking masses, a life force of its own exuberant intent. What then, makes the queue at the Post Office, the complete antithesis? Is it ….

that, with its snail-like stealth, it is reminiscent of queues in the old days, where food and employment were carefully rationed, slowly apportioned and not always available – this feeling added to by the invariable presence of purposeful pensioners, with their “done this before” glazed expressions?

that the post office queues take in such a cross-section of society in all its glory and with all its purpose – from the exchange of the holiday savings for the currency of choice of the wealthier, to the handing over of the benefit of necessity, of the more impoverished, disabled or elderly members of society, that the queue seems interminable?

to do with timing – you know that you are caught in a race for a window, for at any given time, the Law of Murphy (or other such well known phrase) predicts that as you near the front of the queue, at least one of the windows will close, reducing your options and increasing your wait time. You know that the Law of Murphy (or more particularly the other such well known phrase) is fully responsible for this when this happens and it is in fact also your lunch time and you have spent the whole of it in the queue, sandwich in one hand, urgent parcel / letter / bill in the other.

to do with what amounts to a sensory overload, the experience of waiting, surrounded by the white noise of the grumbling queue, advertising, tannoy summoning the lucky person at the front to the window of choice, upset / tired / hungry / grumpy wailing of some poor child or worse, some poor adult (hopefully not the cashier). Of course, that’s just the sensory overload on the ears, do you really want me to explore and explain the sensory overload on the nose that comes from a prolonged queue at a local Post Office not of my own, but of desperation’s choosing?

a direct result of the fact that so many of our community Post Offices have been closed down, that the remaining branches are so over-run and over-worked, that queues form whatever the time or day, so whilst you cleverly anticpate having missed the pension queue, you actually find yourself nearer to being one in the time it takes you to pop a parcel into the post because the fact is that since the closures, main Post Offices experience little in the way of lulls nowadays, they are all busy all of the time.

Who knows, ultimately, why the experience of queuing at the post office feels like an insight into the queue of poor, misguided souls at Hell’s gate? All I do know is that if you can avoid it, if a courier can do it for you, without the queueing, stress and major time commitment, it might well be wise to pursue some of those courier options.

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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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