The hilariously underpowered motorbike of the Australia Post delivery man has just gone past, leaving nothing of interest in his wake. That warbling little cough has gone about its merry way, leaving only shattered dreams and the broken promise of late-night internet purchases making their questionably explainable way to the door.
I have a strained relationship with post.
When we moved to our new house, we had to deal with postmen who were really not accustomed to student lifestyles; i.e. there will always be someone, in varying states of sleepiness/sobriety/dress, in the house to collect parcels. They might threaten to be sick on the way there, but they can still be trusted to scribble something like a signature and collect the mail. Therefore, throwing parcels at the door, or dropping off “we missed you!” delivery cards instead of trying to deliver the parcel, were really not acceptable actions.
Particularly annoyed by the earlier delivery methods, one morning I decided to lie in wait for the post. I heard the rumble of the gutless motorbike and the slight ebb of brakes. I immediately leapt for the door, threw it open…and immediately almost copped a parcel to the head. The postman, a bit younger and looking absolutely mortified, had hurled a small parcel full of jewellery findings over the gate and at the door. Needless to say, he hasn’t thrown anything since. Occasionally I will check the postbox and find a truly amazing kind of tetris-storage of multiple parcels in the confined space. Having to gingerly pry out parcels and occasionally getting drawn into a ten minute conversations about new-fangled signature machines, standing outside in my Star Trek pyjamas and increasing feelings of self-consciousness, are now my only major concerns.
Shiraz Mohammed – if you’re out there, whoever you are – please get your mail redirected. They still don’t believe us when we say you haven’t lived here in years.