Going postal?

My post came through the door at 8pm the other night. Yes, that would be eight o’clock in the evening. I’d be willing to bet money that it wasn’t an actual postman delivering it, more likely it was some kindly neighbour who’d come home to find it on their doormat.

Which begs the question: just how hard is it to put mail in the correct door?

This isn’t an isolated incident. In the past six months I’ve had things stolen from my post, things just not turning up, and more post for people in the next street than I can shake a stick at. I actually chased a postman down the street the other day, waving a handful of mail and yelling “it’s not mine!”

I got home, one day towards the end of July, to find a card stating that not one but four parcels were awaiting collection at my local delivery office. Three trips there over the space of a month and still no sign of these mystery parcels. I’ve complained to Royal Mail, and although they sent their deepest apologies my parcels are still a mystery, and look likely to remain so.

It really does make me angry. The fact that my post (when it arrives at all) doesn’t turn up until late afternoon (4.30pm, a fine time of day to receive your first post, honestly…) means that it’s difficult to chase up cheques or anything else that I’ve been expecting. I’m terrified of having anything sent to my home address lest I never see it again. I’m placed in the awkward situation of having to order gifts and other items and have them sent to my partner’s work address.

It’s a ridiculous state of affairs, not knowing when, or even if, your post will turn up. Not being able to pick your postman out of a line-up because ‘casual workers’ have been assigned to your street and are never there two days in a row. Why should I have to spend all my time making phone calls and writing letters to complain about such downright shoddy service?

It’s little wonder that e-mails are becoming ever more popular, at least one can verify whether it’s been sent, and resending any rogue ones is a simple matter. But it’s a shame because letter writing is becoming a lost art; and there’s nothing quite like receiving a parcel in the mail. Sadly, though, if the standard of the postal service in my area is anything to go by, it looks as though we’ll have to get used to this state of affairs.

A world where we have to collect all our bank books and cards from local branches, for fear of never otherwise seeing them. Where children no longer receive colourful cards containing money and vouchers on their birthdays, or where grandparents never receive clumsily wrapped presents from the grandchildren they rarely see.

Is that what we have to look forward to? If so then it’s a disgusting state of affairs. I think I’ll write a letter to complain…

24/09/2004 ©