There is a positive side. The delays are creating a new form of British entertainment. People are posting (pun intended) their tracking updates on social media like it’s a soap opera. “Day 8: My package is still in Tuffnell. The suspense is killing me. #RoyalMailDrama.”
And the best part? When your parcel finally arrives, it’s like winning the lottery. You open the door, see the postie looking guilty, and you scream: “YES! THE ANTIQUE TOASTER FROM EBAY IS HOME!” The postie hands it over. It’s smashed to bits. But the box has a lovely sticker: “We Care.”
So, to all you in the L, M, and Welsh postcodes, I say: hold on. Your package is out there. It’s probably on a canal boat. It’s been repurposed as a doorstop for a warehouse in Slough. But it’s coming. Eventually. Or maybe not. Just buy the biscuit ingredients now. You’ll need them for the post office again.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go check my own letterbox. I’m expecting a reply from the Queen. But given the delays, she’s probably still deciding on the stamps.
