The Postman Always Knocks 50 Times (then doesn’t wait for you to answer the door).

Bit flat for shoes...

Every now and again, all supplies run out. Together. You would think I could be organised and prepared, by noticing my dwindling paper/ink/whatever supplies and think “ahh! I’m running low. Better stock up before I run out completely.” What actually happens is that I look at my non-existent supplies and think “ahh! I’m running low. Better stock up before I run out comp…ah, I’ve run out.” I can also rely on the fact that supplies will run low at the very point at which my bank account is also running on empty. So here I am in the familiar setting of searching the internet for the cheapest supplies, but not so cheap that they are rubbish quality, a dodgy balancing act, especially when you can’t actually touch any paper or sniff things.

It’s a tiresome job, but quite suitable for today, as I feel totally shattered following a night of minimal sleep, for no other reason than small child waking up briefly at 4am for lost bunny reasons. I then lay awake, thinking that the small child would also struggle to go back to sleep. She did not. I did.

Anyhoo, energy is low so sitting on the sofa searching the web is fine. I’m watching Jeremy Kyle in the background, currently featuring a girl with a curious skin affliction. I can’t work out if she is glittery or sweaty. Or sweating glitter, a skill I’d actually quite like to acquire my own self.

The downside of buying supplies online is the constant delivery of parcels you always forget you’ve ordered, think they will be something exciting and then they never are. It goes like this “ooh! a parcel! for me!! oooh, what can it be? Oh, it’s some picture mounts.” 24 hours later “oooh! a parcel!” etc.

There is also the constant annoyance if the delivery person knocks on the door in a less than satisfying way. Firstly, there is never a need to BANG ON THE DOOR in a furious fashion. I do not owe you any money, nor have I have impregnated your teenage daughter. Neither should you knock out some kind of rat-a-tat tune. It’s annoying. People who do rat-a-tat tunes will, invariably, be missing a tooth and call you “darling”. Not in a good way (the darling bit. I can’t think of how anyone could be missing a tooth “in a good way”. Unless you are six and awaiting the Tooth Fairy I suppose).

The weirdest is the one who came last week, whose knock indicated a man who had no actual arms, but had improvised by sewing a large club onto his shoulder socket. He knocked once, with said club arm. Just the once. I feared for what I wold find behind the door. Then there’s the ones that knock a million times, the ones that don’t bother to knock at all, just leaving your parcel on the doorstep in a rainstorm (or, as became the fashion at our house over Christmas, in the food bin. On top of all the rotting food. Lovely).

As you may have guessed, I am easily irritated. This is why people like me should always be self employed, working from home, safely away from all other humans. Except postmen.

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