The Courier Man Always Rings Once . . .

Short stories, articles, and recipes, by expat authors around the world. ISBN 5 800062 294851

Living in a tranquil valley that’s at the end of a long camí – the local name for a lane – seems to make our address something of a no-go area for courier services.

Since we’ve lived here, we’ve probably had experience of them all – local, national and international companies – and, almost every time, we’ve had a phone call from the delivery driver saying that they can’t come out to the finca. Could we go into Manacor to meet them somewhere?

There’s usually a slightly heated exchange between driver and whoever here has answered his phone call, before one of us leaps into the car and heads – fuming – into town to the agreed meeting point.

Excuses, Excuses

If you’ve ever had to drive deep into the countryside to find a place you didn’t know, you might have some sympathy with Mr Speedy Delivery.

But our bucolic location is only ten minutes’ drive from Manacor – the second largest town on the island of Mallorca; the lane leading from the main road down to our finca gates is 2.3 kilometres of smooth tarmac surface, and you won’t find the words ‘here there be dragons’ on any map of our valley!

Excuses (translated into English) why the courier service cannot come to our finca have included:

 “I don’t drive down country lanes because they’re too rough for the van.”

“I’m running late and haven’t got time to drive out to the country.”

“I haven’t been given any directions how to find you.”

Honestly, it makes you wonder why we bother supplying these companies with a map, written directions, and GPS co-ordinates.

The Courier Calls … But Not Here

A while back, I ordered a few copies of the anthology Foreign Flavours, published by Writers Abroad, which included something I’d written. I had the expected phone call from the driver of the courier service van, asking if I would meet him at the petrol station by Manacor hospital, to collect my parcel. I duly drove into town – in record time because he’d said he was in a hurry – only to find that he’d already departed, leaving my parcel with the rather bemused cashier behind the petrol station counter.

Why am I writing about this today? Well, I ordered something last Wednesday that was to have been delivered by courier within 24 hours. Have I got it yet? No. Perhaps I should pop down to the petrol station . . .

Jan Edwards ©2012