We’re living on tenterhooks at the moment.
Carole is expecting a delivery of some wool. Which is either not very exciting or insanely exciting depending on how much you like wool and/or the thought of crocheting poppies to yarn bomb Brighouse with.
The wool was supposed to be delivered on Friday. It was not delivered on Friday, certainly not while I was home. I had to leave for work, so the wool window closed.
And then, it turns out, the wool had been delivered. At 12.27 on Friday. And it had been signed for.
I was at home at 12.27. I was in the kitchen. But at 12.28 I was in the front room, turning off an alarm on my phone. So I was reasonably confident that no wool had been delivered. Not to mention the fact that there was no card through the door to indicate any sort of attempted wool distribution had taken place.
But someone had signed for the wool. So Carole put on her Miss Marple hat and asked for a copy of the signature. Which looked, for all intents and purposes, like someone had tried to do a signature which looked a bit like Carole’s name. The mystery deepens. Why would anyone fake a signature for some wool? Unless they really fricking loved knitting.
Carole takes it further, obviously. Because if there’s one thing Carole cannot do, it’s let something lie. She did a webchat with a representative of the courier firm who, I’m willing to bet, had never set foot in the same country that the delivery was being made from or to. She was told that, actually, the delivery had not been made and that the signature had been obtained by accident.
Because you can always accidentally sign a name. I mean, the number of times I have almost accidentally written things is staggering.
I mean, it’s utter bullshit isn’t it?
Basically someone’s done a runner with the package for Carole thinking it’s something really exciting and actually it’s just the covering of a sheep dyed a different colour and put into a ball.
We were told that the delivery would be attempted today. So, Carole has waited in all day. All day. Apart from fifteen minutes where she went stir crazy and went to Tesco’s for, probably, a Freddo. But was here at that point. And there was still no delivery.
The only logical explanation is that the delivery person is a cat. And they are currently losing their shit over this ball of wool that is, essentially, a bundle of distraction from which there can be no release.
I’m not sure Carole’s ever going to see this wool. There’s just going to be an empty gap in Brighouse, where the yarn bombing should have taken place. A commemorative thing for the end of the First World War. In wool. Because wool is the most reverential of all materials. As long as it doesn’t rain.
Apart from the bit Carole should have done, which has been scuppered by a random act of (alleged) theft.