“Have you been in all day?” he demands.
I know what is coming. He has been waiting for his sausage machine to be delivered for days now, each time the parcel people cunningly thwarting him with ‘we called’ leaflets and/or phantom door-knocks. I give a weak shrug. “They haven’t left it here.”
He has an explosive look on his face; a combination of frustration and dangerously low blood-sausage levels. I take a quick peek at his cottage, which he has plastered in ‘If I am Out…’ instruction posters stuck up on every possible piece of house that a delivery man might conceive as being a front door.
I share his crossness. I was looking forward to some home made bangers, and Len the Fish has promised to give the ladies a formal sausage-making seminar session one evening. Even his dogg looks forlorn. Curse evil Parcelforce!!! I shall put them in my small black book of things to not look fondly on when the revolution comes.
Big A rings to see if I will replace his bin when the men empty it. I am becoming quite a pillar of the community, what with my parcel-takingdeliveryof and bin-replacing commitments. Later, somebody asks me if I would ‘take on’ the Church Fete. I think that they are probably joking, but I tell them that I have quite enough on my plate at present.