We had a grumpy shopping delivery man this morning. He wasn’t particularly happy with the quality of his colleagues’ handwriting. Or the rules and regulations of the higher management.
It’s fair to say that the Christmas spirit had not reached him.
His annoyance stemmed from the fact that he couldn’t find a portion of our order. He assured me it was on the van, but he couldn’t lay his hands on it.
He found it in the end, returning from his van clutching it triumphantly before breaking into a rant about the shoppers and their inability to write – 4s looked like 9s, you see, and there the trouble lay.
And as I slowly unpacked my shopping – a selection if goods with more dried fruit that can give you the squits than ever before, incidentally, he told me about the time scales imposed by the desk jockeys of the supermarket giant.
Not that he was implying anything, he said, as I offered to speed up. But he was already ten minutes behind schedule and it was only half eight. I threw caution to the wind, eggs be damned. Heavy things went atop bread. Eggs went unchecked. The laws of a good shop were gone.
He seemed to perk up a bit at this. Whether I was being too slow, or whether he just saw that I was trying to help as I threw 16 toilet rolls (the perfect balance to the prune, dates and other assorted fruits) up the stairs behind me I just don’t know. But he seemed to leave with a spring in his step and a song in his heart. Maybe he’d make some of his time back.
So naturally he just sat outside the house in his van for five minutes…