Proof of delivery

I was tasked yesterday with organising a courier to pick up a small package from Central London at 4pm and bring it directly back to our offices in Putney. Now, without sounding self-righteous I don’t think this was a particularly difficult errand, especially for a company who’ve built their business on such an exercise.

But low, 5.15pm arrived and no package, so I gave them a quick call to check how they were getting on. “He hasn’t picked it up yet I’m afraid” was the answer I received. Fine, I thought, stay calm – I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. “Oh, why not?” I asked sweetly. “Well it’s manic out there at the moment” yawned the girl at the end of the phone, at which point my blood began to boil, given that 4pm is not known for being peak rush hour, even in Central London.

I remained silent and prayed for her sake that she’d go on to tell me there’d been some sort of mini tornado terrorising the capital. “It’s the postal strike you see, every courier in London’s out on the road”. I was stunned. How many couriers could there possibly be in London to cause this much of a delay? And on motorbike!? I was suddenly picturing scenes of chaos in Oxford Circus - thousands of men on bikes wearing branded crash helmets, desperately trying to navigate a sea of transit vans while clasping a fold-out street map in one hand, a mobile phone in the other, and shouting the name of every road they came across in sheer blind panic.

“I can see him on my monitor” she said, snapping me out of my daydream, “He’s still about 25 minutes away.” After what seemed like 100 phone calls with updates on his ETA, I resigned myself to the fact that the attempt was fruitless and swiftly negotiated that they pick it up at 9am on Monday free of charge – mainly because the office would likely be closed by the time he arrived, but also because I’d have to hang around for him to deliver it back and I had an important date with my duvet and an X Factor re-run which I simply couldn’t miss.