They usually arrive at our front door just as I’ve gone into the bathroom,or as we’re tucking into breakfast in bed.
Now they even disturb Edmonds Towers on Sunday mornings.
You can tell it’s them, as they ring the bell and knock sharply at the same time.
They’re always in a rush.
I mean the delivery men and women from internet shopping.
Pause too long and they’re gone, leaving a card with complicated instructions on how to get your paid-for goods back.
With some deliveries you can trail their progress online, being told that Bob from Birmingham is now in Preston and will be at your door soon.
I marvel at his progress and feel, when he arrives, like shaking his hand and declaring, “Well done, Bob, you’re a marvel! Fancy a cup of tea?”
“Just sign here, mate” is what Bob says, as I stand on doorstep in pyjamas or a singlet with shaving foam on my face.
They must see some sights. Perhaps, I’ll ask Bob for the inside story next time he calls. I’m sure it could make a film.
The whole business is growing, too, like the packaging that goods come in.
I’m now taking in parcels for most neighbours in Great Marton.
No wonder high street stores are closing, even supermarkets.
As I do my impersonation of a spider tracing my signature on Bob’s device, I wonder what She Who Knows has bought this time.
“There’s this big box for you!” I call upstairs, where she’s risen, too, from our disturbed breakfast.
I lug it upstairs feeling like Santa Claus.
It rattles and is very light.
“Oh, just some eye-drops,” She Who reveals, discarding enough packing to fill our recycling bin and revealing a packet of capsules that would have fitted through our letterbox.
I wonder why they do that – I’ll ask Bob next time he’s up north.
* For Roy’s books, visit www.royedmonds-blackpool.com