Problems With Delivery
Now that Mrs H is carrying a child, thoughts inevitably turn to the various items of equipment that might ensure his or her safe passage through the gauntlet of infancy. Assorted bits and pieces have been acquired in dribs and drabs, to the extent that even a rather premature arrival might stand a fair-to-middling chance of a modestly comfortable existence for their first few weeks.
Over the course of the last few weeks, we’ve been picking the bones of the internet bare of infant-relevant bargains, and have been rather pleased with the haul so far. However, the one inevitable bug-bear with this approach is the constant need to deal with delivery companies.
Parcelforce is one such company. Phone them up to arrange a delivery, and you’ll find yourself speaking to a pleasant (but nonetheless utterly synthetic) robot. They have this voice-recognition arrangement set up, whereby you have to try and persuade said robot to comprehend your really-not-very-difficult requirements. It’s a gas. PLEASE STATE YOUR SURNAME. THANK YOU. THAT SOUNDED LIKE MATHESON. IS THAT CORRECT? One could imagine it going on all night.
Business Post is another company with which we have had unavoidable dealings. Having received the slip, I duly phoned to arrange another delivery, but they’d seemingly all gone home for the night. However, I managed to speak to them in the morning, and was told that the parcel was once again winging its way to my unoccupied house. Obligingly, the chap initiated attempt #3 for the following Monday. It never came. I phoned up to be told that yes, I definitely had phoned, and yes, the delivery had been set up as planned but that, no, these tantalising strands had not quite come together in the form of a received parcel. I expressed my mild disapproval, upon which I was told that, actually, the first chap had done me a favour by setting up delivery #3, since most people only get two goes, and no, they would ‘no way’ be able to hold onto it until I was next home for the day. He concluded that I should stop being so lazy and drive out to the depot myself, which I did, via a labyrinthine industrial estate that, incidently, looked like the sort of habitat ideally suited to gangland executions.
To bolster our spirits on the drive home, Mrs H delved into the parcel to experiment with the rather appealing cot mobile within. She demonstrated the pleasing rotational motion of the various fluffy chaps hanging from it, which we thought a baby might find facilitative of restful sleep. What was more disturbing was the plinky-plonky rendition of the “Teddy Bears’ Picnic”: three musical phrases had been selected, seemingly at random, to be played in a loop and at approximately 240bpm. As mobiles go, it’ll probably prove as soothing as a double espresso.
I intend to go at it with a screwdriver as soon as I have a chance. Although, in its present form, it could certainly be put to use in helping us to get up the morning…