Sometimes It's Nice To Be Nice .....

  Even to a Courier ....!

  I just bought myself a Trail Cam, see. From england. So, I also sent for an SD Card for it, within Eire. I bought the batteries, in town, the other day. All I need now is the camera.

  Sat here this afternoon. Minding my own business. Phone rings. " Hullo, Ditch? This is some or other couriers firm. Where are you? "

  Now, I've had a decade of this now. You lot dealing with the Royal Mail just love to knock them, if a letter doesn't turn up or ~ god forbid ~ a package doesn't arrive on the hour.

  Let me tell ye; You just fucking wait till Uncle Ian gets his way ~ and ye've just handed him a vote of confidence to go for it! ~ You too will see what it's like living in the postal equivalent of a third world shit hole.

  So, anyway, I explain to this guy that I live out along the road between the middle of no where and that town with the population of about forty. And, I'm .....

  Oh, fuck it. Look; Come out of there, for x miles. I'll come up to the road and try to flag ye down .....

  Off I go and spend nearly an hour looking like geriatric, rural rough trade, standing around on the roadside, nodding at passing motors.

  Finally figuring it should have taken him ten fucking minutes, I ring him back. Answering machine! 

  Well, that's it, isn't it? There's me, storming back down the track, mood getting blacker with every step ~ and there's a Lot of them involved too.

  Come in here and I'm trying to check the senders get out policies. Like, this thing's liable to be sent back to them, marked as " Undeliverable ~ No Such Address ". Despite my SD Card coming today. By Postman. He finds my fucking address!

  Then, I've thought about the Councillors I helped vote in. Might ....? No. Frankly. I voted for them. They got their 'Job' ~ and get paid for it. Experience has shown though; Actually ask them to fucking DO anything ....?!?

  An Post ~ the Irish Post Office? Just like any other state sponsored outfit; They just talk down to ye like ye a cunt.  They know ye impotent and their very tone of voice rubs ye face in it. 

  What the Fuck to do ....? And then the phone rings. It's the courier again. " Hullo? Ditch? Is there any chance I could deliver this tomorrow ....? "

  And I just switched off. I went into 'Talking to some poor cunt who's been screaming around half of Eire, all day. No sat nav. No road names. Not even numbers on the houses in the towns ..... Trying to find strangers and buying his own petrol to do it, on minimum wage or below.' mode.

  I no longer take it out on these poor bastards. They have to do it, or lose their dole. Catch twenty two. 

  When I told him that that would be no problem, ye could almost Feel the weight lift off him. " I've still got to get back to the depot, in Sligo, see? And, I've been up since 05:30 this morning. I'm so tired ..... "

  Poor bastard! At Least thirteen fucking hours then!!! And he's no youngster. Tell by his voice. I said he should ring me back, tomorrow. I'd talk him in. He'd never find my turn off otherwise.

  When I threw in my usual; " Liam Neeson couldn't fucking find me! " He laughed so hard I thought he would cry. It's not That fucking funny, of course. Poor fucker was releasing the stress. Someone understood and wasn't screaming at him down the phone.

It was nice.