This particular TC editorial comes under the category of ‘cathartic’ — as can probably be told from the fact that, for the first time ever, the heading is exactly as written on the title page. Combine this fact with the significant beer intake this evening, and you know that you are heading for a full-scale JhM rant. But at least the caption should trigger a few misdirected hits from the dumber members of the Internet community, seeking undressed postwomen…

I got a card through the door from Parcelforce the other day. Y’know, one of those “we tried to deliver a parcel but you weren’t in” ones. In this case, with some Ł37 excess to pay on it — which gave me a damn good idea of what it actually was, HK laserdiscs. Though, as yet, I still don’t know. This is because trying to speak to Parcelforce is like contacting the dead, except only less likely. The South London depot of Parcelforce do not answer their phones; thus, when you call them up, you generally get an engaged tone, because some other sucker has got there first, and is waiting on the ringing tone, in the forlorn hope that someone at the other end wil be stupid enough to pick it up. On very rare occasions, however, you get the chance to *be* that sucker, and are left to contemplate how the employees at Parcelforce must have have their auditory functions surgically removed.

Finally, I got through, and was told the computer systems have been down for the past couple of days. Yeah, sure — coming from a work environment where five minutes of computer failure is deemed unacceptable, I was less than sympathetic, but I gave them my details and asked for the parcel to be delivered on Saturday. They took my number and said they’d phone me back. With the benefit of hindsight, I can hear them cackling manically as they put the phone down, “I said I’d phone him back, and he BELIEVED me!”. For no call ever came. At 5:30, I tried to find out what was going on, only to get the engaged/ring till Doomsday approach once more. I even tried to fax them, only to find that their FAX had also had its auditory functions surgically removed, as it wasn’t answering the phone either.

So, as it stands, I have no idea what’s going to happen tomorrow. I know if I go to the depot to try and collect the parcel, it’ll have been put in a van and sent to Perran Road, and I’ll get back to find another poignant little card saying “we tried to deliver a parcel but you weren’t in”. However, if I sit here and wait for it, the package will be stuck resolutely in their warehouse. This should, theoretically, be a 50/50 chance, but few things are less certain than Parcelforce.

Do you care about this? Probably not. Do I? Not really. I’m sure that my parcel and I will be united at some point. But is it just me? Or is there some larger, demonic scheme at work? And at least it did help to pass an otherwise tedious Friday in the office. Oh, fuck it — I’m going to have another beer…