What one hand taketh…

… the other one snatches away. Last months pay slip was somewhat skewed in favour of the taxman (remember it’s not the Government’s money when they’re funding war by ego, it’s our bloody money robbed via the means of direct taxation). Actually think of it as a financial mugging which rapidly arrested the development of a tidy little upgrade project planned for one of the bikes. Not actually required of course, rather another tweak in the endless/pointless (delete as applicable) search for component perfection.

On enquiring why the Inland Revenue can rape and pillage my wage packet at will, the response was both complex and barely understandable by a man to whom anything beyond log tables requires the use of an accountant. However said accountant summarised it thus: “Because they can, mmmwaaaahhhhhh”. That little financial snippet cost me an additional thirty quid.

As each delivery van roars down the road, removing at source the problem of dog-shit by mowing over the odd dim witted turd producer, hope briefly rises that “the great pant crisis” is close to being over. But no, here we are at lunchtime – hope crushed – with only the smell of canine roadkill to keep me company. It’s cheering me up but has yet to out-stink the pile of smouldering washing.

So far today, it’s been all demand and very little supply. The only sign of the many and varied products recently ordered has been their descriptions in the debit columns on the credit card statement. What a great business model: pay now, possibly deliver in your lifetime. And then only between 8am and 6pm on any day except a weekend or if the van has broken down, or when the shit hot logistics system has accidentally shipped you a dolphin rather than a washing machine. Easy mistake to make eh?

Assuming you can ever get past the cry to barely restrained violence that is “your call is important to us, all of our agents are responding to other customer needs”, your reward is a cacophony of pealing laughter, when enquiring if it’s possible to reserve a slightly less ambiguous delivery slot.

I’m expecting the Milkman to pop round, in a minute, demanding money with menaces to the value of a couple of grand. And we don’t even buy milk off the Milkman but living in the world of less service for more money, don’t even think about arguing. Not unless you want to spend some quality time held in a call queue suffering endless “Music to slash your wrists by” arranged for Children’s xylophone.

Anyone had any experience of shelf stacking? Or failing that, what’s the minimum age you can realistically send the kids up a chimney?

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