LIZ JONES'S DIARY: In which a run-in with a delivery driver is the final straw
I’ve gone off, like a carton of sour milk. I was poised, barely three weeks ago, to either rekindle things with David (mad) or attract someone new (unlikely; my feeling is I put off The Hunk by writing about him in this column, even though I changed the continent he lives on, his profession and didn’t name him). But now everything I had done – roots, feet, lashes, brows and all the bits and bobs in between – has reverted to type. I’ve turned into one of those women who, at all times of day and night, worry the whiskers on their chin, studying one extracted between thumb and forefinger against the light in triumph.
My main problem – apart from all the other ones, of course – is that I cannot stand living in the Yorkshire Dales. It’s not just the constant shooting of crows, pigeons, foxes and rabbits; it’s also the delivery drivers.
I always order my coffee beans from Coffee Plant on the Portobello Road. They roast the best coffee in the world; unlike me, it’s not bitter. The beans are my last little bit of luxury, the one remaining tenuous thread connecting me with London, the place I call home. But almost every time, the order is stuffed up. Last month the wrong amount of beans was sent. The time before the driver said my road was closed when it wasn’t. Yesterday, having waited in all day for the driver, I got a text that evening. ‘Roy was unable to find your address. We will update you shortly.’
Today, I received a text to say Roy will deliver my coffee between 10.45am and 11.45am. Hooray! But at midday, having sat by the front door all morning, I checked my phone. Another text, to say Roy could not find my address. Again. Why couldn’t he phone me? Or look it up on a map? What is wrong with him? It sent me over the edge.
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