There’s nothing I love more than trying to shower as a steady stream (well, two) delivery men come to the door.
Oh, wait, there is. I can’t wait until Christmas is over and a person can shower in peace.
It must be a gift, or a special sense or something, that allows a delivery person to know the exact moment you can a) hear them knocking and b) are at your most naked.
They never knock when you’re in the shower. The sound of running water would mask their rhythmic thumping. Instead it’s directly before or directly after you enter the water flow.
My uncle had a similar gift relating to the very moment a plate of food would touch a table.
I think these delivery people enjoy hearing a muffled “Oh for fuck’s sake…” and then a scrabble to put clothes back on in order to answer the door.
Also accompanying this is the fact that the clothes you have removed become the hardest things to reapply in double-quick time. Especially post-shower as your dampened body becomes, counter-intuitively, the most frictionful object on the planet.
Today the Amazon man was treated to, “I said I’m bloody coming, hang on a minute!!” as I redressed. Badly, as it turned out – my top was on backwards.
And having rushed downstairs to accept a deliver of “seed samples” from foreign climes for next door I could hardly say “No, I won’t take them…”
After all, I’d just spent like a minute trying to get a trouser leg the right way out.