I've documented my love of the US Postal Service on many occasions. True, they have a lovely museum in DC, but the famous stuffed dog displayed there gives better customer service than most employees. I could tell you many a tale of the unbelievable waiting times, eye-watering prices and surly staff, but you'd think I was exaggerating and that would undermine the credibility of my entire blog.
So a few months ago I received a note saying the postman had tried to deliver a parcel (he hadn't - he'd just delivered the note saying he'd tried to deliver a parcel). It said I had to visit the local P.O. to pick it up. I girded my loins and made sure Pete was asleep in his buggy before I went in, praying that his 45-minute nap would be long enough to complete this simple transaction.
I knew what this parcel was: my birthday present from my sister, addressed to 'The Davies Family'. Now, when you collect a parcel, usually there's a fair bit of shouting from the people at the desk until a mysterious door opens and someone shuffles out, snatches your slip, disappears, has a cuppa and a smoke out the back, and then finally returns to thrust a dilapidated box into your hand. So imagine my surprise when, within seconds, the clerk bent down and produced a box from Target addressed to Hannah Davies, full of things she'd ordered a few days before.
"No, that's not it," I told the lady. "The parcel I'm after is addressed to The Davies Family."
"This is the parcel," she informed me.
"But," I said, "the note says it's addressed to The Davies Family."
I waved the delivery note as though hoping to ward off the demons of lunacy. The note was taken from my grasp.
"Is your name Davies?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Well this says Davies."
"Yes...but..." I tried to explain that the delivery note didn't match the parcel, mainly because what was written on the delivery note didn't match what was written on the parcel. The room began to spin, perhaps a white rabbit hopped by complaining he was late. Eventually my tormentor, or customer service assistant if you prefer, raised herself with much sighing and disappeared through that door at the back, giving me a fleeting glimpse of mounds of desperate packages in the hangar-like warehouse. Somewhere in there was my package.
No it wasn't, she said, on returning from her cup of tea and a smoke. The Target box was the only package for our address. I returned home and sat on the sofa rocking and muttering to myself, trying to find my happy place.
Except that she was LYING! Because today my sister called to say that the package that wasn't there has arrived back in Britain. Not only that, there are stickers on it saying it has been sitting in our post office, down the road, for FIVE MONTHS. "Unclaimed!" accused the note attached, dated 18th November, despite the fact I've been down multiple times to claim other packages that the postman never delivers, only leaves notes saying he tried to deliver them.
But when all is said and done, the distance traveled works out as 7,348 miles at 0.0015 pence per mile. Cheap by anybody's standards so pack yourself well, mark the box "Do Not Bend", and post yourself to Maryland. Of course, you'll have to spend five months living in our local post office, but I hear they're very generous with cups of tea and cigarettes.
Photo credit: Emily Davies, Frome, UK
