Today my Monday Moan is focussed solely on the UK’s useless postal system. Leaving the house this morning I spy one of those little red slips of hell meaning that I missed the postman and am required to spend the morning queuing in the sorting office to collect those beloved gloves I left at mum’s last week.
I wouldn’t mind, but I know for a fact that at 7.20am this morning when the postman “called” I was sat right next to the doorbell (don’t ask) and there’s no way I could have missed him. he does this a lot which is why I’m so sceptical – I actually caught him a few months ago writing out a little red slip of hell before he’d even tried the door. I wasn’t spying, I was honestly just leaving the house when I opened the door to find him. I swear.is it just me or is it not more effort to get out your pen, fill out the date, time and type of package and carry the parcel back to the van than it is to knock and wait?
All that said, I still didn’t feel this was quite worth a highly coveted Monday Moan slot, that is until this afternoon…
I pop off to the post office to drop off a parcel and face a queue to rival those outside next on the first day of the January sales. Just when I thought it can’t get any worse, the in-branch credit card readers break down across the whole nation, the angry customer next to me shouts so loud I’m now deaf in my left ear, the computer system temporarily freezes and needs a re-boot and the woman behind the counter would rather tell me her life story than recognise my calm frustration and ringing ear.
I find it so fascinating that in a world where we’re mere years away from teleportation and robots that are better than boyfriends* we still have a postal service that’s so archaic that the sheer thought of a visit brings us out in hives.
*the teleportation and robots line might be a slight under estimation in terms of when these will be ready for public use.
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