I have a new mail person. Where I live, there’s a glass windowed enclosed veranda with a door and then there’s a front door with a mail slot. Not complicated, really. Confusing things is that my adjoining neighbours—yeah, those— have a mail slot on the outside, leading to their locked verandah.
In the past while, I’ve found mail outside on the front doorstep, wedged in the verandah door, on the floor of the verandah. Great.
A few days ago, I found a package delivery notice stuffed among some flyers. Instead of finding the package here, I need to go pick it up. All good. It forces me to take that 45-plus minute walk. I’ve been a lazy lump, so all good.
Bundled up and pulled my empty trolley to the designated post office. The woman manning the counter must’ve been new too. I gave her the delivery notice and then realized that I hadn’t brought official ID. I pulled out some utility bills with my name and address. I showed her my gym membership card with my photo on it. I presented my personalized chequebook with my name and address. And nope.
How do I know that this is not my supervisor testing to see whether I follow the rules? Yeah, I’m sure they go to such lengths to check up on their employees.
I left with my empty trolley and unredeemed delivery notice.
I thought that in picking up a parcel, it’d be sufficient to prove who you were and where you live. I guess I was wrong. Or she was new and had something to prove.
Anyway, I was livid.
Thank goodness for delicious tea.