Under the influence of an insistent advertisement and the advice of certain friends of mine, I bought an electric steam-mop. Actually, that’s a lie. I bought two electric steam-mops.
I know that sounds like a contradiction (“Electric, but still steam-powered? I do not understand, good Sir. Pray tell, how does such a contraption contrive to cleanse your floors?”) but I wanted a steam mop on the pretext that it would somehow improve what Emergency Contact and I palm-off as “completed housework“.
Honestly, if there’s a household chore that I find less rewarding and more annoying than mopping, I can’t think of what it is… apart from washing dishes… and hanging out two weeks of black socks… oh, and don’t forget dusting the high places. I hate that. Actually, when I think about it, the only housework I think I would enjoy is rocking backwards and forwards on the balcony with my shotgun on my lap, telling the neighbourhood boys to keep off the grass.
The deal was one of those ‘twofus’ and I become aware of the special magnificence of it as I was doing the Saturday crossword. The ad that seemed to have been going for half an hour in the background of my awareness finally crossed the threshold into my consciousness and I sort of came to, thinking, “I’ve always wanted one of those - maybe even two.” My call was very important to the Kiwi lady who answered the phone, and I quote, “Thuts icksullunt, cheers aye?”
I ordered the mops and asked for them to be delivered to work. I left special instructions to the effect that they should be delivered to reception so I could sign for them personally, rather than being delivered to goods receiving round the back where they'd disappear. “No drumus, aye.”
On the fifth of May, I decided that the wait had been too long. I gave them a bell and was told that the mops had been delivered on the 21st of April, nearly two weeks before my call. Investigations would ‘bigun at their und’.
I asked if the special instructions had been obeyed. When I was told there weren’t any special instructions in my order, I expressed my annoyance. Back and forth we went, and my first call ended with me promising to go and check the goods receiving for my mops. I would get back to them and let them know the results of my search.
I donned reflective safety gear (to blend in, not stand out) and made my way out to the forbidding territory of The Fuckin’ Warehouse, to look for my little electric mops.
As far as not standing out is concerned, try stumbling around heavy machinery and heavy blokes saying, “’Scuse me, have you seen my little mops? They’re about this big and should’ve been delivered by now.” (I could only have improved it by lisping.)
Now, here’s what this story hinges on. One of the lads out the back says, “Yeah, I saw a box for one of them out in the recycling.”
I went and looked and, to my horror, there was an empty box for one of my little mops. Empty. No mops. I instantly knew that I was up against the stony, unhygienic face of Union Backed Workplace Theft Of White-Collar Clown’s Stuff. This is considered a sport and an honourable pastime in some places. Out the back in The Fuckin’ Warehouse, I felt like crying and stamping my feet. That’d show them.
But I decided to become implacable about it and set my shoulder to the task of getting my mops. There was still some of the registered mail sticker ID on the box, just enough to get the number. It wasn’t entirely hopeless.
I spoke to Australia Post (second time lucky I might add, the first agent feigned faulty phone, yelled “Hellohellohello” and then hung-up on me, after 11 minutes on hold.) When I gave them the registered post ID, the agent said, “Yes, that was delivered to South Australia and signed for by *name*, in Findon Post Office.”
I sat back and mustered my patience.
“But you can see the problem with that, yes? I am holding the empty package here, in Sydney. I want the signature of the person who signed for it, here in Sydney, so I can track them down and get the contents of my package.” (And mop the floor with them.)
She came back with, “We must have recycled the number.”
It’s funny where your mind goes when you’re up against “the man” and “the man” floors you with one of those fantastic pieces of idiocy. My first reaction should have been, “What the hell is the point of registered mail if you recycle the registrations?”. Instead, it was, “Wow. You’re telling me that there is so much registered mail sent in this country that the post office has to recycle ten digit numbers every month? You could fix that by adding another number, you know? It’s not like we are going to run out of numbers.”
I left that phone call with the promise that there was going to be an investigation launched and that I should wait to hear from them once they had a signature scan. I went back to the New Zealanders who sell the mops, and told the nice Kiwi lass that, because my special instructions had not been faithfully transcribed, my precious mops were in the clutches of the great unwashed and I would never see them again. She told me what she had been doing while I was away.
“Now, I’ve lussened to thi recording of your order, and the sales agunt dud take the unstrictions down. She ivun rids thum beck to you. We cen hier her typing thum. What appeers to heve hupppened, is the softweer tekes out the unstrictions whun ut forwuds it onto the coureeer, aye. Wool sund you sim replucemint mops.”
Oh joy, oh bliss. I will get my mops.
And it was then that I looked over at the empty mop box from a slightly different angle to the way I had been looking during the phone calls. There, scribbled in blue pen on a blue background, upside-down and almost illegible, was a scrawl saying, “Findon 15/3.”
Findon was the town that the postal girl thought this box was delivered to, and 15/3, if I guessed correctly, was a month before I even ordered the mops. It had gone to South Australia, and it had gone there before I knew I even needed it. Wait a minute…
Holy Crap!
This was a box for the type of mop I had ordered, but not actually my missing mops.
I looked closer at the box. I realised that it had been opened and then resealed. Someone had ordered the mop in South Australia, unpacked it and then re-used the box to post something else to my company in NSW, leaving some of the original postal ID stickers on the box.
What are the odds? Let me recap: I went looking for my missing goods out the back of a giant warehouse, someone happened to notice a small box in one of many enormous, industrial skips, that matched exactly what I was looking for, and I went and started WWIII, thinking that this was my missing stuff.
A bit embarrassing.
But my stuff was still missing. I did have to go back to the phones. I explained to the Australia Post girl that she could wrap up the investigation of my case. She said, “I don’t know what to put. I don‘t have that in my drop-down-box for a resolution”. I asked her if there was 'customer error' or 'alien abduction'. She answered that maybe “Other” was the safest. Yeah. Other.
Now I’m waiting on the replacement two mops which may be joined by the original order of two mops that still have a slim chance of showing up (a man can dream, can‘t he?). If I end up with four mops, I will turn them into a pop group; The Four Mops. Oh, my sides. I think I just made a mess. Wish I had something to clean that up with.
See, it works on so many levels. Four rhymes with floor. Mops rhymes with Tops. It’s one of those things that totally makes the whole, ulcer inducing debacle worthwhile… okay, maybe not.
