waiting for christmas
Online shopping is the devils work.
I could have just gone to the shops. The actual physical shops, in my actual physical car. Driven down the real street, fought vigorously with a couple of grannies for the latest hype toy. Gone home victorious but battle scarred. I could have.
Instead i chose to buy shit online.
After going through a 20 stage process i gather all my gifts into a metaphysical basket. Then I need to register, putting in loads of personal details and yet another fucking password for me to forget. Having finally got through that we get with only a couple of crashes I get to the page where we put in our delivery address. This should be easy but for some god forsaken reason the fucking bastard automatic address finder absolutely point blank refuses to acknowledge that my address exists. Having suffered the anguish of the thought that perhaps they are right and i don’t exist in anyone elses head but my own i give in. I have to admit that i am wrong and the address that is on my front door and all the fucking bills that have no problem in finding me, no iwantnoneofthose is fucking right and i have to accept that my address is actually on a completely different road. I can only pray that the local postie will use the same diligence in finding me as he does when he comes armed with four bills in stark crimson. Of course none of this fucking matters half the time because the fucking website insists on sending my shit to the credit card address anyway so that the accountant ends up with a bumper load of anusol.
Nearly there.
Nearly there.
One more step before processing.
Verified by visa.
It’s like Satan waiting at the gates of hell.
I fucking hate verified by visa. No matter what i put in it denies my password is correct. I’m sitting there thinking what the bastard 2nd, 4th and 7th symbol is and i can’t work it out. I’m sure i’ve got it right, but no it seems they know how to spell my mothers maiden name better than me. Fuck it i’ll reset it
I don’t know why i bothered. What was the fucking point in any of this because apparently somewhere in the small printt of the the box you have to tick in order to absolutely GUARANFUCKINGTEEE that the parcels will arrive in the next couple of days there’s a clause i missed. Somewhere hidden deep in the small print like the watch in punchys bum in pulp fiction, deep deep down inside there is a clause that says the guarantee is not fucking valid should some snow appear on the horizon or indeed there be any climactic change whatsoever. if there is, it means the parcel could arrive at any point within the next four weeks. Brilliant, Christmas is off till Parcelforce decide the sun has got it’s hat on.
Of course in the end a lonely and disgruntled parcel guy armed with an etch a sketch and scalpel to cut his own wrists when it’s all too much arrives at your drive. At least the fucking parcel tracker says he has, but somehow by some fucking miracle which can only prove the existence of god, by some absolute freak of nature, the fucking parcel tracker bitch of a website claims that he tried to deliver but somehow on this one occasion you were not in. I HAVEN”T LEFT THE HOUSE. This cannot be!!! The mother fucker. Did he ring the bell? Did he knock? or did he just drive by and deduce it was too fucking cold to get out of his warm van ensconsed between dog eared copies of razzle and old ginster packs.
So now, because it was my fucking fault for somehow not knowing that the courier guy had metaphsyically presented himself at my closed door, because of this they have now carried away my precious gifts to their “delivery base” from whence i now have to travel forth and retrieve it. Fortunately this HQ is only open 5 hours every morning and is situated in such a shit hole of an industrial estate on what can only be deemed london as optimistically as Luton airport is, even my sat nav decalres this part of the world out of bounds. After having paid an extra £10 for the priviledge of not receiving my packages i must journey far and long to stand in a long queue of similarly disillusioned punters in order to be ignored for as long as possible by the sour faced man behind the counter.
After looking quizzically at my delivery card as though he has never ever seen such a thing in his entirely life he waddles off into the back for half an hour with my goods. Hooray Christmas is here!
Earnestly clutching my hard won Christmas presents to my chest i waddle precariously to the car happy in the thought that Santa has at last arrived.
Joy at last, good things come to those that wait, i rip open the tardy jiffy.
Hang on i didn’t fucking order this!!
