The better half of Salt (Cambridge Division) has been away filming an author in Paris, sampling Lebanese soups in some arrondisement and drinking imported VB, the Melbourne beer, in an Australian bar till two in the morning. Meanwhile, at about two in the morning, back in Blighty, The Shrieker, masquerading as Son No. 2 has been practising his scales through the night, leaving me with purple eyes and a head filled with black soup, where brains once festered.
“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille”
The Shrieker unleashes top secret food bomb
The winter mini catalogue arrived on Monday, shrink-wrapped, pallet-loads of boxes blocked the drive until I released them with a Global knife from the kitchen and proceeded to unload 10,000 copies, piling them, floor to ceiling, in the hall.
Home distribution is a dark art. It involves creating grottoes of towering cardboard boxes, all quite festive really at this time of year, until one is left feeling hamster like in the runs one creates. I have daydreams of New York recluses being dug out of apartments and forty tons of bags and garbage. Anyway, once I have lost three pounds hulking all this stuff into the house, it is time to book an immediate despatch with ParcelForce. Now the real fun begins.
ParcelForce are, in our experience, excellent, timely and nice. This last quality being unusually attractive in modern business. I begin tapping details of weight and destination into the PC, 15 minutes later, the site reports that my order cannot proceed and I must ring a number. Sudden dread fills weary bones. I phone the number and am directed through labyrinthine choices on the touch tone pad. “For non-sclerotic despatches from verified EU account holders, please press 1. For beneficial coordinates to limited occupants, please press 2. For imitated human interaction on non viable protocols, please press 3 …” I enter the coma.
After Prozac jazz or Wurlitzer dance music the voice speaks. I am suddenly kick started, we work our way through the selection from the Web site, until the software reports a similar problem with approving the order. “Oh, the software can’t accept this.” I feel relieved that I am not the only software reject in the ParcelForce universe. “I’ll just transfer you to your local depot.” More aural torture ensues, with the added voiceover of new options and facilities.
20 minutes later I am routed back to the original help desk and after a bout of Baltic folk music on mouth organ, the voice speaks again. “Can I have your postcode?” We begin. Fifteen minutes later, the software fault appears. “I’ll just transfer you.” I can see speeding lights, hear rushing water, sense the universe imploding, rushing towards the primordial egg of nothingness. The transfer returns me to sonic hell and more descriptions of the benefits of using the Internet. I long for the Internet. I ponder on the marketing and customer services strategy of torturing customers into using the Web. The voice speaks, “Yes, sir, ah, I see the problem, I can bypass that.” We move forward, exultant horns of triumph blare about me. Credit card details are taken. “We’ll pick up tomorrow, before 2.00 p.m.” “Eh? No it has to go out today. The deadline is tomorrow.” “That’s fine, sir, it’ll be picked up before 5 p.m..” I hang up to discover I’ve been on the phone for two hours. I must have had my life quota of easy listening Jazz for Psychotics.
The older children arrive from school. Kirsty looks panicked. “I have to go to Maisie’s party.” “Can we ask Clare to take you?” They run for the door. Ten minutes later they return with a slip of paper. “Clare said to ring her. She needs you to take Emily.” I stare at the clock and look at the wall of catalogues. After phone call, Clare appears to wait and hand over boxes to ParcelForce lifesaver. I pack the car with girls and head off to next village. On return, boxes remain in hall. “Where’s the van?” “He’s not been.” With mounting dread I return to the home orifice to ring Jazz Purgatory.
“The collection hasn’t happened.” “Can I have your postcode?” “Charlie, Bravo …” I ponder on new found expertise in phonetic alphabet. “There’s no record of this, sir.” “No, he said he’s sorted it. He swore.” “He what, sir?” “Not expletives; promises, promises.” Telesales professional slips into “I’ve got an awkward bugger on the line” mode. I am addressed as if two years of age with extraordinary politeness and deep apologies. “What are my choices.” “You can take them to the depot. Before 7 p.m.” I stare at the clock. I grab The Shrieker and Son No. 1 and dash to the door.
Rear seats in our people carrier weigh about forty tons each and require PhD in engineering to release from mounting brackets. I buckle and sway with each seat padding to the front door. Space created, I begin heaving boxes from hallway to boot, lose further two pounds in weight, look like Marvel Comic Book Hero, Liquid Man. I slam the rear door shut and jump in. We have 40 minutes to reach the depot, and return to collect children at 6.30. Cambridge at 5.50 is still entrapped in nose to tail commuters. Each poised to slaughter fellow travellers after spending an hour not moving filling the streets with grey clouds of carbon monoxide. We are travelling against the traffic and the road is clear.
6.10 we are in the depot. Handsome Ozzie snowboarder on financially punishing trip to Europe is working out the autumn with ParcelForce. He exudes Sydney charm and characteristic speed of operation. Syllables pour out like Marmite (Vegemite) from a jar. I am wall-eyed staring at the seconds ticking by in the digital display of the credit card machine. I hear screaming. “Can I just get my children? They’re in the car outside.” Son No 1 is looking like he’s having a coronary as The Shrieker is all mouth and decibels. I release them. 6.20 and we are unloading the boot. I blow kisses to the catalogues on their way to merry Luton. We spin through the orange lit empty estate, pass roundabouts, solitary cyclists, and find the roads quieter. Commuters have found a way out into the devastation of their evenings and dreams of snaking columns of full lorries and empty buses.
We reach the party on time. The girls pour out of the cake-packed house and into the cack-filled people carrier. After dropping off Emily, we head for the hamster run of the hall. I can see the tops of the walls now, the boxes have diminished until the next delivery from Euroffice, who appear to specialise in shrink wrapping single boxes of paper inside a three foot cardboard box of air. Standardisation, a key component in logistics as a way of life. I close the office doors.
