Dublin: 6 °C Thursday 24 September, 2020

Every absolute nightmare involved in getting a delivery

*continues to refresh tracking*

UNDOUBTEDLY, THE INTERNET has changed our lives for the better.

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Where else would I buy cheap contact lenses and clothes that I will inevitably never wear?

Yes, the internet has made my life, and the lives of many others, almost too convenient.

Except, that is, when it comes to deliveries.

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I’ve resigned myself to knowing that my epitaph will read: “Here lies Fionnuala, who died trying to reorganise delivery of her *extremely urgent* ASOS package.”

No matter the courier company or the contents of the package, I’ve managed to make a haims of it at some point in my life.

The constant refresh of tracking your parcel

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Why. Don’t. You. Just. Arrive. Already?!

Feeling like a prisoner in your own home patiently awaiting it’s arrival

When ASOS have you under house arrest …


“Any plans for the day?”

“Not really, no.”

Why do I always say I’m going to be home knowing full well I won’t be?

Stop lying to yourself and the DPD man.

You work 9 – 5, there’s as much of a chance of you being home to sign for something as there is of you walking on the moon.

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Begging your housemates to make themselves available to sign for you instead

They have lives too, y’know.

Still, that’s not going to stop from getting in a huff when they don’t DROP EVERYTHING to ensure your Zara parcel makes it to the door.

SO selfish.

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When you actually are at home and the delivery person doesn’t knock loud enough/ring the bell

I’m sure there are worse things you can find shoved in your letterbox than a “sorry we missed you!” slip from An Post.

But it’s certainly up there.

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*very Joey from Friends voice* “I WAS HERE THE WHOOOOOOLE TIME!”

Calling to your neighbour after they successfully delivered it to them and not you

“Hi! It’s Paul, right? Sure we haven’t spoken since we had that gaff and you called the guards on us … How’s things?”

Attempting to rearrange delivery

… And realising that the several ‘customer service’ numbers listed on the courier’s website are all probably connected to string cans on the plains of Mordor.

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Inevitably having to collect from a depot

Surely this is the real definition of the Walk Of Shame?

Google-mapping where this faraway destination is – often with an address at the Back Arse Of Nowhere, Dublin 11.

Next day delivery, me hoop.

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