Stamps

Are the bane of my existence.

No, strike that, the Post Office is the bane of my existence; but I’m in a mood about stamps right now.

Someone once told me the secret to financial stability is to only buy one stamp at a time. There’s no discount for buying in bulk and you’ll only lose them if you buy a lot in one go.

I forget who it was, but I suspect they need to get out more.

Right now, I need to post something and I bitterly resent it. I could just email it, with the click of a button – providing my computer isn’t having a hissy fit and refusing to do anything – but no, they’ve asked for it to be posted.

Posted!

How quaint. How very twentieth Century.

I used to live right next to a post office and it was way too much hassle to post things. It kept such odd times, I’m fairly positive lunch was whenever they saw me step out of my front door and on the off chance I did manage to catch them open they responded by filling the aisles of the little shop with kids and pensioners. – both of whom smell of wee.

Now I live that awkward distance where I could walk it in about fifteen minutes, but by the time I’ve queued up and managed to interpret whatever strange language they speak behind the counter

– she looks English, she was talking English to the last customer, but when I get to the counter she seems to have suddenly reverted to Urdu or Vulcan or ‘Aha, fuck you, I’m making my own language up’.-

and walked back, it’ll knock a good hour out of my frantically busy day.

That’s assuming they’re actually open.

I could drive down, but then I feel like a fat, environmental murderer. I could pop in as I drive past on my way to Kung Fu this evening; but oh no, they’ll be closed by then.

The best alternative would be just to put some stamps on and pop it in the post box tonight – except I can’t do that, can I? No, because the ‘rules’ are so arcane. I have no idea how much it costs to post an A4 letter with four pieces of paper in, because they keep changing it.

Every time I go, they hold up this bit of plastic with holes in and claim they can’t get it through any of the slots. That means it’s expensive.

“Fold it in half, you fucking bitch.”

Oh, wait, she’s lapsed into Mongolian again. And now security are heading in my direction.

I posted a contract off a couple of days ago – that was only 48p. This is in the same envelope and has less pages, it must be the same price or cheaper, surely?

So the plan is simple – stick two first class stamps on, that must come to more than 48p.

Which brings me back to stamps. I know I have some, I remember buying them; and against the advice of whoever it was, I bought a book of 12.

Where the fuck are they?

I know I put them down on the shelf, behind a particular photo – but they’re not there. I can’t ring Mandy since she’s on a plane to Kingston (Jamaica? No, British Airways did. I thank you.) so I have to find them myself.

Now, logic suggests: if they’re not where I put them and no one else (I think) has moved them, then I must have picked them up and used them. That means I’ve either put them down somewhere else, or I’ve left them in a jacket pocket.

Which is a problem, since I have a jacket fetish which results in me having about 50 million jackets.

Well, 15 – I just went and counted.

And at least 7 in the loft. I’m the kind of guy who goes out to buy socks and comes back with a new jacket. Presumably on the grounds I will one day find one which makes me look like Han Solo.

By contrast, I have hardly any socks.

15 active jackets at a minimum of three pockets each that’s … hang on, I need a calculator … 217,000 pockets.

No, wait, that can’t be right.

45 pockets.

45 pockets. Do you know what I’ve learnt after searching them all?

Three things:

  1. I don’t need to order any more business cards. I haven’t given them out, I’ve just hidden them in the pockets of all my jackets.
  2. I need to buy some more jackets, I don’t like any of these and rarely wear them – hence not knowing the pockets were full of business cards.
  3. I still can’t find any fucking stamps.

This means I have to buy more. Which means I have to go to the post office anyway, or brave the little shop where that guy with the wonky eye keeps looking at me funny.

To be fair, he looks at everyone funny. He can’t really help it; but he does seem to manage an extra funny look for me.

I just don’t have time for this shit, I’m a busy man. I’ve got just over two weeks to write a feature script and I’ve already had two phone calls today about other projects – which of course I’m not going to turn down because they might find out other people are better than me and not come back. Where would my plan for cross-genre, multi-media world domination be then?

So it’s off to the post office I go, with an impending sense of doom and the sure knowledge I’m going to miss lunch and ‘accidentally’ buy another jacket from the shop next door.

First thing I do when I rule the world is buy the post office and force it to stay open 24 hours a day. Then I’m going to invent languages and pretend I don’t understand them.

But first, in an act of defiance against whoever gave me the stamp advice, I’m going to buy another book of stamps; and this time, I’m going to keep it somewhere really safe.

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Categories: Random Witterings, Rants, Sad Bastard | 1 Comment

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One thought on “Stamps

  1. Pingback: Hi-lo-hi « The Jobbing Scriptwriter

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