Klopfen - To Knock

Postpeople, that is my non-gender-specific and therefore non-sexist term for the people who deliver our letters and parcels, are very cold and calculated individuals. In my experience anyway. They seem to know the exact amount of time it takes someone to be woken up, to hastily throw on some clothes or a dressing gown and scuttle fuzzily downstairs to answer their aggressive I’ve been awake since 4am so fuck you knock-come-bang on your door. Then deduct twenty seconds from that time and bugger off, leaving one of those ‘We called and you were out’, cards that can ruin anybody’s morning. I’m sure they fill out one for every parcel before they even leave the depot just to make executed their sadistic plan even easier. Now I understand they’ve got a job to do, and probably have hundreds of houses to get around on any given shift, but it severely takes the piss when they give you next to no time to answer the door. You’d think they’d be happy to lighten their load! One less package to lug around. Unless they get bonuses for high numbers of undelivered parcels for reasons need-to-know reasons non-Royal Mail employees need not know. The icing on the cake of shitness (made up of fatigue, disappointment and anger) is you can’t get whatever it is redelivered until the day after tomorrow. A whole extra 48 hours, which, if you’re waiting for that season of Curb Your Enthusiasm or Big Brother 5’s Diary Room Uncut (if you’re a prick), is complete torture. Just save yourself the trouble and spend an extra few quid buying it over the counter.