“Your parcel was successfully delivered at 11:46 and was left with a neighbour.”
It’s nice to think that the folks at Hermes have such an implicit trust in humanity. I didn’t ask for that service, nor was I given the option to prefer they stashed it in the wheelie bin or left it behind the flowerpots. They kindly took it upon themselves to leave my new trainers with ‘a neighbour’ instead, as though this were Ramsay Street and every other resident was some sort of Harold Bishop.
I wasn’t in; that was the real problem. For some reason I didn’t expect the winged messengers to deliver on a Sunday, and I didn’t expect it so speedily after making the order on the previous Saturday afternoon. I thought Monday might have it, statistically. I should probably not have underestimated the incredible focus Hermes has on speed, even if it were at the expense of accuracy. The text came through after the fact.
So, which neighbour? There was no further indication on my doormat when I got home, and it looked like entirely none of the local Harold Bishops were in. What Hermes has given me then, is a trip round the street tomorrow, looking for my new running trainers. I can only hope they’re with someone who doesn’t have both a devious curiosity and size 8.5 feet.
They’re okay, my neighbours. I’ll find it. Or hopefully, the current steward of the Nikes will feel compelled to simply bring the package round tomorrow. Ha! Harold Bishop carrying Nike on behalf of Hermes! It’s a classicist’s nightmare - the Roman goddess of victory on the wings of the Greek god of messengers, and the hands of a fictional character off of Neighbours.
I checked my emails later, just to see if there was a delivery note with a house number. Boo. No such luck in the inbox. They had though, attached a delivery picture - a photo of my parcel on an indistinct bit of tarmac, next to someone’s feet... and I wish I were making this up but... the feet, with their owner not in the frame, were happily sporting a pair of Nike trainers.
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