on January 28, 2022 It is a tale as old as time, or at least as old as that other blog post I wrote about the Royal Mail, where they had to cross a portal between worlds to access my front door so they could knock on it.
For decades now, the Royal Mail have only managed a weak breath on the door to announce their presence, and so from an unheard delivery that was unbeknownst to me, I was declared not home, and my parcels were never delivered.
If only their dainty hands could have reached a little further, if only that portal wasn’t in their way, then I would have got my parcels. If only…
But that was then, and this is now. I fought this battle already. I solved this problem with a doorbell, and not just any doorbell but a magical one that records everything. It’s like Big Brother but less evil because it’s just my family watching to see who’s dating who and how the neighbour’s petunias are doing (not well one can assume by the cries of ‘dried out little twigs’ … unless they’re referring to who’s dating who?)
Unfortunately, my valiant efforts offer little reward, for even though I can now see the postie bringing my parcel, ringing my bell to loudly announce their presence, and frankly having no issue reaching my door as I can only assume my magical doorbell has completely closed the portal that used stop them from knocking on the door as there is no evidence that it ever existed on the footage. Even then my parcels do not arrive, and I am left with a little cryptic card asking me to redeliver, as if that is something I can do from this side of the universe.
Why does this redelivery still plague me, you ask?
Because the postie only appears under the glow of the moon, the skies are dark, and I am asleep until the sun begins to rise. What ungodly hour is this? 7:31am the magical doorbell says. Why at that time, even awake, I would still be in my nightwear, which is to say nothing but Channel Number 5, and I certainly would not be ready to answer a door, especially during Covid. Even if I were out of bed, I’d still be half-asleep and frankly confused about where to put the mask before I answered the door.
So, I stare longingly at my magical doorbell. Can you save me again, dear friend? Can you answer the door for me? The answer comes to me in flash of inspiration. Could my doorbell speak for me when I’m asleep? Could there be a message waiting for the postie at any hour inside this magical device, and if so, would it sound like this?
“Dearest Sir or Madam,
If it is before 8am, and you are hearing this, then it is likely that you have a delivery for me.
If this is the case, then I am sorry to say that I am asleep right now. I am home, but I am also unconscious now—lost in the land of dreams that begin inside a Jane Austen novel and end in a horror movie with zombies trying to eat my cat.
You could leave the parcel in my shed if you’d like. I’d like that very much, but please don’t take it away or give it to the neighbours because they have light fingers and loose morals.
During a pandemic, one would assume that giving parcels to the neighbours is somewhat like a death sentence anyway, especially if said neighbours read tabloid presses or Conservative government advice that tells them to put jellybeans and goldfishes on their faces instead of masks because that’s science now. You don’t want me to die, do you? Because that is what will happen if you follow the government’s advice as the science our current government follows is pre-enlightenment. That is to say it is Dark Ages science, so when they say they ‘follow the science’ it’s a different, new, fictionally orientated science that they speak of, which is half a graph cut to tell a different story and never peer reviewed unless you count it being posted on Facebook as peer reviewed.
I’m not really into these new fangle sciences about jellybeans, goldfishes, and I tend to avoid anything posted on Facebook, even my own adverts. I much prefer a mask of paper or cloth with a filter and to live in complete isolation, if possible.
I understand the risks of leaving my parcel in my shed, which is located in the triple-gated, twenty-foot walled-off back alley that likely has guards, CCTV and an entire spy’s guild hidden in its dark underbelly. I don’t believe anyone would dare or could physically trespass it, but I’ll take responsibility for that million to one chance that worries you so much if it means you’ll leave my fucking parcel in my shed for me because I’m asleep right now.
If, however, you are hearing this message after 8am, then you can be certain that I am both home and awake. I may even be dressed. So, when you ring this bell, you should hear the faint cries of ‘I’m coming!’ through the door.
Do try to contain your smirk, as I am likely trying to wrestle my insane cat into the kitchen, so he doesn’t dive under the neighbour’s penis extension of a car when I open the door.
In the same instant, I’ll also be trying to don a mask on my face, brush my hair and find the keys, which we all know slip in and out of this dimension on a whim. It is not, as you smirkingly assume, my cries of passion you hear when I scream ‘I’m coming!’, but rather my panic that my parcel will once again be consigned to redelivery hell when I’ve been at home waiting for it since the crack of dawn.
Thank you for your patience, and I hope you can find my shed based on the path of neon arrows and numbers I’ve setup to lead you to it, so I will never see a redelivery card again. If you have problems reading an arrow, then I don’t think even the gods can help you.”
Please dear doorbell gods, give me the ability to speak when I am asleep, so these confused delivery people can hear my words.
Until then, I will spend my nights with vampires as I while away the twilight hours waiting for my deliveries. If I am lucky, I will be allowed to sleep at dawn, for I know they will never deliver in the daylight hours.
I’ll be watching over you all, and the neighbour’s petunias until the next dawn my dear friends while patiently waiting for my next parcel…