So the girl at Moronic's depot - the one who slammed the phone down on me when I mentioned the word 'complaint' - has told the professional customer service lady that they did turn up on Tuesday and that no-one was in. When I know that Buddy was at home all day. Wasn't he?
Customer Service person: I can only go off what they tell me at the depot.
She doesn't suggest that maybe my partner wasn't at home when they called but the thought is there, hovering just offline. I entertain for a few seconds the idea that he slipped out for a secret rendezvous with a Russian agent, but dismiss it immediately. Bud was at home. Moronic's phone dropping depot girl is lying.
JJ: Can't you deliver it by 4pm on Friday, instead of 6pm? I don't want to sit around all day waiting for it (and then not have them turn up again).
Customer Service lady: No that's not possible. But if you want to, you can go and pick it up at the depot between 12 and 3pm. Then you know that you'll receive it.
I agree that this method might have more chance of success and foolishly say 'yes' to this do-it-yourself option. Customer Service lady says she'll fax the depot to let them know. The phone call ends pleasantly.
Then it hits me what I've let myself in for. I'm going to have to meet this rude depot worker - probably irate by this time if she's been hit over the head for dropping the phone on me - and beg her to hand over my parcel. Plus, I have to get Bud to drive me to Amsterdam South-East which, though not exactly a slum, is getting on that way.
My interest in ever seeing this birthday parcel is waning. Somewhere in the middle of the interaction with Moronic Parcel Company, my motivation has changed from (1) get the parcel to (2) take retribution by getting depot girl fired.
And now I want to go and meet her? Not frigging likely....
I ring Customer Service again. Someone else picks up the phone and refers me to Customer Service lady.
JJ: I don't like this solution. I'm doing your work for you. Sorry if you've already faxed but please fax them back and tell them to deliver it on Friday.
She agrees, of course, what else could she do.
Thursday evening: I look at the yellow card again - left behind after the first failed delivery - and see that the first figure of our house number is written so small that the driver might have missed it. So that's it: Moronic turned up at the wrong house on Tuesday. And they're probably going to do the same tomorrow.
In desperation, I put no my coat and go out up the road to the other house - the one I think they delivered to - to see if they have a yellow card left behind by Moronic on Tuesday. A blond-haired girl pokes her head out of the window on the first floor and tells me, no, there's been no card left behind. She comes down the narrow winding staircase, puts on the light and looks at the card I'm holding. No, doesn't ring a bell...
Friday morning: I ring the Customer Service number and get through to the same lady. Give my name. Hear her jaws clench and see the thought passing across her brain 'Not you again'.
JJ: Don't panic. I'm going to be in for today's delivery. But I think I know what went wrong.
I explain about the 'missing' digit and how the street is in two halves, with two separate one-way systems and how the driver will never find our house if he goes to the other house...
Customer Service lady: They're a big parcel company, they should know Amsterdam. I'll just send them a fax to tell them to take note of the number.
Ha. 'They' - she doesn't work for them.
Bud is by this time totally agitated. The whole story has got him on edge, poor guy. I'm beginning to feel like I'm ailing for something. I take a look at the e-mail I sent my brother (the sender) and wonder if it was fair to bother him with all this. Am I overreacting and is this making me ill? Or am I under the weather and therefore overreacting?
I feel like my entire week has been sucked into the parcel saga.
Friday 12 noon: No parcel. Bud: Half the day's gone already. What is this?
Friday 1pm: No parcel. They're not going to deliver...
Friday 2pm: No parcel. Should I call the police?
Friday 3pm: No parcel. Lawsuit!
Friday 3.35pm: Door bell rings. JJ leaps to the intercom, presses button, takes keys, yellow card and Dutch ID card and runs downstairs.
Friday 3.37pm: JJ meets Moronic Parcel Company's dishevelled-looking driver coming up the stairs. "I've got your parcel" he says. I like that use of the possessive pronoun...
He hands me a brown cardboard parcel, from Deutsche Post, with the correct house number in black-on-white on the front. I thank him.
JJ: What happened on the Tuesday? Did you have difficulty finding it?
Driver: No. It's just that there was one day when no deliveries were made because of the snow!
And he left, without asking me to sign anything.
P.S. It's a nice book.
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