Monday, 26 January 2009
oh, the irony of sunday tabloid papers...
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Saturday, 17 January 2009
does PO stand for 'piss off' rather than 'post office'?!
The other night, I was reminded of my hatred of the main Post Office in town. Since it has been privatised, commercialism has started to creep in and when you want to post a parcel or buy a stamp, you are bombarded with cheap umbrellas at inflated prices, tacky CDs and DVDS that nooone would want to buy anyway, and party poppers. This is annoying.
I go to the Post Office a fair bit, sometimes every week, just to send bits and bobs or pay bills. I used to go to the one outside my street but these cosy little affairs have been closed down in favour of huge corporate selling machines, which means I have to travel into town and face the grotesque main one.
The one useful thing that used to be on the shop floor was this little stamp machine that gave you single stamps when you put your small change in. Typical they should get rid of this and replace it with a stamp machine that sells only books of twelve. I just do not need twelve second class stamps, one will do!!
Therefore, then you have to go queue for twenty minutes at least to get this bloody second class stamp. On fifty percent of the times I have visited my town's main Post Office, there has been a drunk man there at 4pm, singing, talking and complaining loudly. From what the ladies working there were saying, I assumed he came in every week, would queue for half an hour to send something or other, then promptly leave because it cost too much. Every week. Six months and he still hasn't sent this letter to his poor mother.
By the time YOU get to the front of the queue and get the stamp, you then have to dodge past questions like:
"Is the item you're sending of any value?"
"Would you like to insure the item?"
"Would you like to insure the item gets there by tommorow?"
"Would you like to insure your home?"
"Would you like to insure your face?"
"Is there anything else, on your person or not on your person, absolutely anything at all, which you feel may need insuring?"
By this point, you're losing the will to live. Maybe the drunken man has got the right idea afterall... I'm not sure you could go to the Post Office stone cold sober. You'd have a nervous breakdown.
I go to the Post Office a fair bit, sometimes every week, just to send bits and bobs or pay bills. I used to go to the one outside my street but these cosy little affairs have been closed down in favour of huge corporate selling machines, which means I have to travel into town and face the grotesque main one.
The one useful thing that used to be on the shop floor was this little stamp machine that gave you single stamps when you put your small change in. Typical they should get rid of this and replace it with a stamp machine that sells only books of twelve. I just do not need twelve second class stamps, one will do!!
Therefore, then you have to go queue for twenty minutes at least to get this bloody second class stamp. On fifty percent of the times I have visited my town's main Post Office, there has been a drunk man there at 4pm, singing, talking and complaining loudly. From what the ladies working there were saying, I assumed he came in every week, would queue for half an hour to send something or other, then promptly leave because it cost too much. Every week. Six months and he still hasn't sent this letter to his poor mother.
By the time YOU get to the front of the queue and get the stamp, you then have to dodge past questions like:
"Is the item you're sending of any value?"
"Would you like to insure the item?"
"Would you like to insure the item gets there by tommorow?"
"Would you like to insure your home?"
"Would you like to insure your face?"
"Is there anything else, on your person or not on your person, absolutely anything at all, which you feel may need insuring?"
By this point, you're losing the will to live. Maybe the drunken man has got the right idea afterall... I'm not sure you could go to the Post Office stone cold sober. You'd have a nervous breakdown.
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