April 14th, 2011 at 7:58 am by Stupid Rubbish

I was making a cup of tea.

Nothing unusual in that you might think – and you’d be right, it was simple a cup of tea I was making for my good self in my slightly off-circular Albania! mug that my Dad brought me back from Albania. It’s a red mug.

I had been expecting a package for a few days, my friend Richard as I feel I should call him (as we were doing things in the real world together and even share some Facebook) had very generously posted me an external hard drive for me to put, unused, into a cupboard until approximately the exact day that my PC dissolves into a pool of fizzing horse porn and data protection concerns.

My dogs were helping. Helping in the sense that they both aim to stand directly between me and whatever it it I need to use or operate in the production of my cup of tea. Then, as if it’s the very first time they have EVER seen my mug (it is not) they follow it and me across the room, shuffling backwards, noses an inch from the cup I am walking towards the sink… in some kind of weird canine choreographed ballet entitled:

“We hope with all our hearts that it’s a piece of warm meat – even though we’ve seen it every day and we know damn well it isn’t a piece of warm meat because its a f*cking cup”.

So there I was, mid way though my Pas de cheval urging myself on towards the sink, when it happened…

The front door opened without warning and the top half of a man appeared wielding what looked, in that fleeting moment, to be a large brown box. Now as it happens, it was a large brown box – but this is neither here nor there as the real issue at this point was the sudden and unusual presence of the top part of a bloke inside my personal house space.

Sometimes time all but ceases to occur.

A handful of disparate milliseconds stretching lazily out into frozen moments where our perception of the world around us seems to magnify into some kind of information-rich fire that burns inside our living soul. Mostly this happens in films like The Matrix or Max Paine and I also think it happened once in SISSY’S HOT SUMMER (1983) but that later turned out to be a VHS spooling f*ck due to a greasy and borked cog.

Anyway, this moment was still happening – and I was in it. Right in it it.

The impromptu dog ballet ceased, sans encore, replaced instead with over 100 kilos of unhappy puppy instantly trying to gain traction on slate tiles. Heads synchronised and lolling forwards impatiently, teeth prepared, mouths gaping, waiting for at least two of their four desperate legs to make a meaningful contact with the elusive floor.

This was shortly followed by the thunder of eight angry paws making extremely swift progress down a long hallway, across the wooden boards, towards the frozen postman and his threatening presence with this large cardboard box he seemed to be unable to let go of.

As Cerberus itself they morphed into a single animated wall of rage as they covered the ground co-ordinating their duties: one snarling, lips curled back and teeth flashing white whilst the other fired off a salvo of deepest baritone barks to serve as fair warning. Abandon all hope all ye who enter here.

It was beautiful – I was frozen in time with a part made cup of tea.

The postman reacted.

He threw the box to the ground and pulled himself back through the doorway slamming it behind him, holding it shut as the dogs arrived and closed it against him via their involuntary inertia. As easily as it had opened however – the door wouldn’t close, not without him holding it desperately, hanging from the handle like some kind of weather-beaten mascot hanging from a teenage girl’s very first rear-view mirror.

It’s a multi-point lock you see, on a PVC door. It’s quite clever and it locks in several places if you turn the handle upwards when you close it. However if you kneel on the floor holding it shut whilst two dogs bark at you from inches away through steamy Pilkington safety Glass…it doesn’t close too well.

Anyway, here we were…again… at another one of those little junctures in life that I seem to encounter on a daily basis, with a postal worker trapped helpless and hanging off my front door, a parcel from my friend Richard lobbed helplessly into a canine deathtrap and my beloved tea only half made.

And that’s when the postman made a run for it. An actual run. He pushed the door shut, looked over to me as I was now advancing down the hallway (pretending he hadn’t seen) me before simply sprinting away. The dogs, seeing the door begin to slowly swing back open, prepared to burst into the void, adrenaline coursing through their veins…

“Sit” I said calmly.

They sat.

You know, I swear I heard one of them mutter oh for f*cks sake….

So what happened next?

Well, I instantly marched around the house angrily repeating phrases like “what a f*ckc*nt!” and “how dare he just come into my bastard house” and “I should have f*cking let the dogs f*cking chase f*cking him” until my cup of tea was cold. In between rantings I hopelessly tapped at the Internet to find the phone number of The Post Office so that I could phone them and have this raging pervert sacked immediately.

I also learned that The Post Office doesn’t really have a phone number, simply a web form that hopefully tries to repackage and re-brand your inquiry and lever it as far way from “complaint” as possible.

So I helpfully included the words THIS IS A COMPLAINT on the top of my little text box.

Then I inspected the package, a precious and lovingly packed hard drive, worth thousands* and yet thrown recklessly across a room** full of animals, vowing to take it to the PC and check it’s functionally instantly if not sooner.

*Not worth thousands.

**Dropped onto the floor from a couple of feet.

So the facts are clear:

1> I have a sh!t postman who will now throw all my mail into the sea rather than face me and the hell dogs again.
2> I need to find some kind of  lock that you can fix to a door that makes it  shut like a normal f*cking door.
3> I need a new cup of tea.

Bye!

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