The Package Haaaaaas Arrived!

Peeps the infamous package has found it's way to Upper Leeson Street... but not, of course, without a wee bit of a fight.

And so the story went like this:

I rushed madly out of work this afternoon at 5.01pm to make sure I made it to the Ballsbridge Post before "5.30pm". The just mentioned time is in quotation marks because this is PRECISELY the closing time a Ballsbridge Post employee had informed me of the day prior. And the story goes on...

I frantically (in a poised, casual manner) hail a cab outside my work. Granted, the caby I hailed had to make a u-turn on a horrendously busy street but still... that does not excuse the mockery that was to come...

Me: "Shelbourne Road, Ballsbridge please. The Post Office there... i dont know the number though... do you know it?

Mr Cabby: "Yes I know it"

(that comment was totally fine)

Mr Cabby again: "You know it is only 2 minutes around the corner"?

Me: Oh is it? Well that's okay though because I need to be there before it shuts at 5.30"

Mr Cabby: "5.30! It's only a 2 minutes drive around the corner... only a 5 minute walk!"

Me: *"Are you insinuating that I should be walking?" *please note that myself and the driver were having harmless banter

Driver: "Ha... well...it's just around the corner" (It wasn't by the way)

Now we arrive at the "Ballsbridge Post" which is a grey service-type looking door at the bottom of a nice office building called, crazily enough, Post House. At this point it is all making sense. Mr Cabby directs me to the grey door which has absolutely no signage or regular Post paraphenalia you would generally expect a post office to have. And this is when the high drama begins...

Not only did Mr Cabby mock me for worrying about making it to the post shop by 5.30 (when I embarked on the journey to get there from a place 2 minutes away at 5.00) but the post was closed! And Mr Cabby was generally concerned at this fact! Mr Cabby says: "It can't be closed!" It was 5.08pm! Yes that's right! Closed!

Alas, I manage to weezle my way in when one Post shop employee opened the door to leave. I am then greeted by another posty who says: "No no we are closed".

"Noooooooooooooooooo you CAN'T BE CLOSED! Pleeeeease I just need to pick up my post! "No lovey, this is not the Post shop, you need to go up to the end of the street. A slight pang of pain and defeat washed over before the nice man said: "Lovey, this is the parcel sorting house".

Parcel sorting house? Hmmmmm.

You see the irony of this whole fiasco is that the Cabby has indeed taken me to the wrong place, but he had indeed taken me to the primary resting place of in-limbo parcels. MY PARCEL WAS RIGHT INSIDE THIS BUILDING. For an added bit of drama, the nice man begrudgingly asked me: "Alright, can I have your parcel ticket then lovey"? I had left it in the cab!!!

You know what, none of this matters now - becuase I have the parcel (thanks mummo).

ps. I fekkin (thats Irish speak for the obvious) hate my hair. they'll be a short hair pic of moi on here soon no doubt after i either A). Go off the deep end and hack it of myself or B). have the common sense, soundness of mind and highly overated 'patience' to make an appointment at a reputable salon. Hmmm watch this space (that is, of course, if you are at all indeed interested whatsoever in my hair. Which realistically, is probably very view. Make no mistake though - IT IS IMPORTANT.