The Problem of the Time-travelling Parcel

In which The Author has fun with a courier

In the absence of my usual working environment in Aberdare Library and/or various cafes and pubs, I've decided to make my back bedroom into an office. It's small enough to accommodate everything I need and heat quite economically during the cold weather. (Having said that, it's quite chilly here today, a week or so short of Midsummer Day.) With this in mind, on Wednesday morning I ordered an item from a UK seller on eBay. They're based in London, with a warehouse in Northampton. A few minutes later the order confirmation pinged into my inbox. With a two-day delivery service, I could expect my item to be delivered on Friday (in other words, today).

So far, so good …

At 10.15 p.m., I had an email from DPD telling me my item would be delivered 'tomorrow' (in other words, 11 June).

Ordinarily, that would be very short notice. If I'd still been working in Cardiff, it would open up a whole can of worms involving 'Sorry we missed you' cards and/or redelivery to more or less reliable neighbours. It's a good thing nobody has any great plans to do anything in the current situation, isn't it? As things stand, a Thursday delivery would have been much better than I'd expected.

But, of course, this is 'Great' Britain in the year 2020 – and nothing ever goes according to fucking plan.

To monitor the consignment's progress, I decided to install the DPD app on my phone. I did have it on my old handset, and I think I actually used it once. It's supposed to send you a notification when the delivery leaves the depot, and again when the driver is in the vicinity, so you (in theory) don't miss the knock on the door. I decided it would be handy, because there's nothing more frustrating than waiting in all day with no sign of the driver, popping around the corner for a pint of milk at 5.30 – because who on earth delivers parcels at that time of day? ‐ and getting back to find the inevitable card on the doormat. At least I could plan my visit to Lidl around the driver's ETA.

I logged into the app once it was installed. At 2018 on Wednesday evening, my parcel apparently still hadn't arrived at the depot. An hour later, I knew (via email) that it had arrived at the DPD 'hub' at Hinckley in Leicestershire – not the geographical centre of England, but close enough for jazz. It's not too far from South Wales either. We were on course for delivery on Thursday.

Allegedly …

You can probably imagine my surprise when I logged on to the app on Thursday morning to check the delivery window, and found this:

The next part of the notification was even more worrying:

I logged on to the DPD website to see if I could find any contact details for them. As I'd half expected, there was no phone number, and no link to social media feeds; just an email form to complete and send to Customer Service for a response 'within 90 minutes'. I filled it in and sent it off. It wasn't a complaint. It was a light-hearted dig at the time-travel device which was currently conveying my delivery. No response.

I logged on again before going to bed on Thursday, to check the state of play. Nothing had changed since 0915. I figured that things would move overnight, and I might get my delivery on Friday.

No such luck. I logged in to the app just after 7.30, and this is what I found:

There's an absurd tradition in Aberdare that the town's war memorial wasn't meant to be here at all. If you listen to assorted Pub Bores and Myth-makers, they'll tell you that the impressive slab of granite, some three metres high and weighing several tons, was originally intended for Aberdeen. The driver misread the delivery note and it ended up here …

Here's a good crossword clue: Any pub story you hear about Aberdare's past (8).

I've filled in some of the letters for you …

B _ L L _ _ _ _

(Actually, there are two possible answers, both of which are correct.)

Anyway, that load of cobblers came to mind at 7.45 on Friday morning, when I found out that my parcel was at the wrong end of the neighbouring country, and (presumably) was destined to head even further north as the day wore on. Where would it end up? Aberdeen? Aberdour? More to the point, when would it actually get to Aberdare?

After fiddling with the app for a minute, I found the 'contact' options – a live text chat or a phone call. I opted for the phone call, but their customer service line wasn't open until 8.00. No problem; I waited until just after 8.00 and hit the button. After a few minutes of listening to recorded messages, I spoke to a cheerful lad in the West Midlands and explained the problem. He laughed and told me this sort of thing happens all the time. A parcel gets put in the wrong cage in the depot, and ends up being loaded into the wrong lorry.

I said I completely understood.

When I worked in the book trade, we were always getting parcels for other branches, or other shops in Cardiff, or even shops miles away that were completely unrelated to ours. The sheer volume of stuff moving through the system means that you don't have time to check every individual parcel coming off a lorry. You just count the total number of boxes you're unloading into Goods In, make sure it agrees with the driver's manifest, sign the sheet and away goes the lorry. It's only later – quite often, after you open the box and you're wondering why the order numbers don't look familiar – that you realise it was intended for WH Smith in Cheltenham, instead of Waterstones in Cardiff.

I told the guy about a funny incident that occurred shortly before I finished in Waterstones. Borders, a short walk down the road, were hosting a signing to tie in with the launch of the Gavin and Stacey TV tie-in. On the morning of the signing, one of the couriers (who shall remain nameless) delivered about six hundred copies of the book to us. Now, had we had decent relations with our bookselling cousins two hundred yards away, the situation could have been sorted out easily. We'd have slung their parcels onto a couple of trolleys and wheeled them round the corner ourselves. We'd have had to go past the very long queue of people waiting to meet the stars of the show, of course, but at least the books would have been in Borders when the event started.

But we didn't have a good relationship with them. Quite the opposite, in fact, following a nasty incident after a publisher event in Bristol, which almost ended up in a full-on brawl outside the Hayes Island Cafe. We took the opportunity to get our revenge by ringing the courier to report the misdelivered consignment. They duly collected the parcels the following day and delivered them … well, who cares when? It was after the signing. That's all we were worried about.

However, my rogue item isn't a small parcel containing a few books.

It's a fucking flatpack desk!

It must have taken some effort to put that in the wrong cage, and then in the wrong van.

The guy and I had a good laugh, and he told me he'd arrange a 'priority delivery' for Saturday morning, by way of apology for the fuck-up. And he was as good as his word.

I think …

Shortly after we wished each other a good weekend and I hung up, I had another notification from the DPD app:

So, will my parcel arrive tomorrow, or will I have to wait until 2026 for it?

The suppliers themselves don't seem to be any the wiser. Here's what eBay have told me this afternoon:

As usual, boys and girls, watch this space …

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.)