Meanwhile, in the Post Office ...

In which The Author continues Project No More Mr Nice Guy

On Wednesday evening I got home to find the now-traditional card from the postman in the pile of junk mail and takeaway menus. I'd been expecting it, because I'd ordered an item from Ebay which I knew would be too big for the letterbox. On Thursday morning I went online and arranged for it to be redirected to my local post office.

When I say 'local', I didn't want to fuck around in Trecynon again. The only-just-post-teenage chavs in charge most of the time have enough difficulty speaking basic English, never mind coming to terms with the written word. (NB Both lads were born and bred in Aberdare. Go figure …)

With this in mind, I went to the Royal Mail website and requested delivery to Aberdare Post Office. This was on Thursday morning, remember. The earliest possible delivery date was today – Saturday. Yes, I know – in the Twenty-first Century it still takes two 'working' days to process an online request. However, I wasn't in any great rush, so that was fine. The website advised that different offices have deliveries at different times, so I left it until about 12.30 to call in for my parcel.

In front of me at the counter was a bint who wanted to change a large bundle of notes for smaller notes. I've no idea why, but it took her nearly five minutes – after I'd joined the queue – to sort out a straightforward (aaaargh!) transaction. I've no idea how long she'd been there before I walked in, so I'm guessing we can add at least fifty per cent to the total. It gave me chance to sort out the 'local collect' fee, though, so it wasn't entirely a waste of my time.

I stepped up, handed my card to the postmaster, and said, 'I've got an item to collect. It's being redirected from Aberaman [the sorting office].'

He took my card, looked at it for a moment, and said, 'It says here …'

'I know what it says,' I replied sharply. 'I've been through all the palaver online to have it sent here.'

He looked at the box the postman had ticked again.

'Tell you what,' I said. 'Next time I get a card, I'll Tipp-Ex that bit out so you don't get confused!'

The queue was building up. I didn't care. My voice was getting louder as well. Did I give a fuck? What do you reckon?

The postmaster went behind the scenes and returned a few seconds later with my parcel. But that wasn't the end of the story.

I already had a pound coin and my driving licence on my side of the counter.

'There's a fee to pay,' he said.

'I know!' I said. 'That's why I've got my money here.'

I handed over the money and my driving licence, so he could compare my details with the details on the label. He made a great show of scrutinising the two sources of information before finally deciding that I was me.

'That's seventy pence, please,' he said eventually.

'I know!' I said, once again. 'I've done this before – several times. The last time was only about a fortnight ago, and you served me then, as well. Believe it or not, this is actually easier than spending nearly three quid trying to get to the bloody sorting office.'

I gave him my best Peter-Capaldi-as-the-Doctor 'Don't wind me up or I'll do something you'll regret later' grin, pocketed my change, took my parcel, and fucked off out of the place.

Short of going out to China myself to pick the items up myself, can anyone think of an easier way to do this? Answers on a postcard, please … (At least I know those will fit through my fucking letterbox.)