As far as I can tell, delivery drivers are adverse to human contact and would much rather fling your package over the fence whilst whizzing past your house, signature be-damned. I mean, I get it, they’re busy. I’m not busy. No, I have nothing better to do than calmly gaze out the front window contemplating the azaleas and my own existence for the 5 hour time-slot I have been led to believe my time-sensitive, business-related package will arrive in.
They wait until you leave your watch-post at the window to have a wee, then silently steal up the garden path and slip a ‘sorry we missed you’ note through the letter box with such stealth that the dog doesn’t even lift her head from her basket.
Or they Formula One past your house and when they’re a solid mile down the road call you to tell you you missed them.
But I haven’t left the house all day, you tell them. There are dents in the carpet where my two feet have stood for hours without moving, just waiting for you, you plead. I have a rash on my hand where the sweat has oxidised the metal on the door handle as I clung to it awaiting the arrival of my package, you insist.
No, the driver tells you, I’ll be back this way next Tuesday between 8am and the following Tuesday, so you’d best be waiting or that urgent registered letter will have to go back to the depot in Hong Kong.
But possibly worse than that is when you DON’T want them to call to the door. Say, for example, when you have a sleeping baby. Working from home, as I do, my office hours work around my family, and often intersect. Just a second, I tell my patient, quiet, understanding toddler, Mommy’s talking to the nice lady in the bank about getting lots of money to help business grow. Anyway, you finally get the patient, quiet, understanding toddler down for a nap and BANG BANG, DING DONG, WOOF WOOF, WAAH WAAH. Chaos ensues.
I once saw this sign and thought it was the best thing since sliced bread. So delivery drivers be warned: