Delivery people in The View from the Terrace

I really am sick and tired of answering the door here. At home it was so much easier, you just opened the door. The farthest away you could be was in the end bedroom upstairs and then you could call through the window and let them know you were coming. Here, if you are in the living room at the front, you have to walk the length of the flat, and it’s a long flat, put on shoes, and mac if it’s raining, and collect keys, go down the steps, across the small garden and down a passage next to the garage, then unlock the gate. The doorbell starts the dog barking so you also have to contend with the dog trying to come to the gate with you to protect you from a potential intruder. Some of the delivery people are so impatient, they ring a second time before I have even reached the end of the flat, provoking the dog into a bigger frenzy.

Answering the door is one thing Louise isn’t usually able to do because of her social problems so it is almost always down to me. Today I was still in bed when the doorbell rang, we both were, which made it even more difficult because Louise sleeps in the end room which the door to the flat opens in to and which is classed as the second bedroom even though it doesn’t have a window. The dog sleeps there too, it’s a nightmare.

There is a lot of door answering to do because Louise buys a lot of stuff online. She is vegan and a keep fit enthusiast and she buys lots of protein drinks and vitamin supplements. It’s crazy because there is a sports supplement shop across the road, but they don’t have her brands. There is a delivery most days, sometimes two and they always seem to come either early, when I am still in bed, or when I have just left the garden, taken my shoes off and settled down on the sofa.

Delivery people come in all shapes and sizes. Some, like the Hermes man are friendly and lift your mood, some, like the nervous East European young man are afraid the dog will get out and bite them, then there is the big Jamaican guy, all smiles and loud reggae music playing in his van in the alley. Yesterday, though, we ordered a Subway to be home delivered by Uber Eats, and I really wish we hadn’t. He was due at 6pm and at 6.10 he rang Louise’s phone, which I answered, to say he couldn’t find us. I asked where he was and he gave the name of our road which is about a mile long. This is the conversation that followed-
Me, ‘Where on the road are you? ‘
Him, ‘I’m not sure. ‘
Me, ‘Are you near the top by the roundabout? ‘
Him, ‘Roundabout?’
Me, ‘ Can you see what number you are by?’
Him, ‘No. ‘
Me, ‘Do you know where the mini market is? ‘
Him, ‘No.’
Me, ‘Are you near the traffic lights? ‘
Him, ‘Ok, I go to the traffic lights. ‘
Me, ‘You need to go north from the traffic lights and then turn left by the mini market and I will come out to you. ‘
Him, ‘Ok, I go to the traffic lights. ‘ Line goes dead. This man is a taxi driver!
I didn’t have a lot of hope but I walked round to the main road, dodging the young people who didn’t bother to socially distance on the way, and stood by the mini market. There was nothing that looked remotely like a taxi anywhere. Eventually I came back and Louise told me there was no message on her phone but the order seemed to have been cancelled. So we didn’t get our Subway and had to make our own tea. Louise is now researching alternative delivery companies but, to be honest I would rather not bother.

Now I must go and get an early night in case there is another delivery first thing in the morning.