What gift you ask?
Why, dear readers, this gift.
This gift came to me all the way from Norway from my very own sister. And what an adventure this package went on! Let me tell you the tale...
A few weeks ago, Sarah told me that she had mailed a Christmas gift to me and that I should look out for it. A couple weeks went by, didn't receive anything and didn't think much of it (considering mail was backed up for months following the Olympics, I figured I would get it just in time for Thanksgiving 2013). When Sarah mentioned it a few more times, I started checking the mail more frequently, asking the concierge at my building and still found nothing. Finally it got to Friday and still nothing (and only 2 more post days until Christmas--oh no)! This is where the story gets interesting. Or boring, depending on how limited your patience is. Mine had reached a critical low by the end of Friday afternoon.
Sarah gave me the customer number and tracking number. I decided to stop in to my local post office to see if, for some reason, they had my parcel and just hadn't delivered it yet. No dice...attempt one. After getting home, I tried one more time with the front desk to see if it had been delivered in my 45 minute absence...nope. Attempt two. I called the courier company that Sarah shipped it with and the oh-so-unhelpful woman on the phone told me that I would have to drive to one of their convenient locations to pick up my parcel, about 300 miles away. Thanks love. Attempt three.
I then tried to see if the tracking number would work on one of the main courier services for England--it worked! Success. It seemed like I would be fourth-attempt lucky and have my parcel before bedtime! So off to the local Royal Mail depot I trundle, 10 miles away, and wait in line. It turns out that there are two Royal Mail depots in Northampton, one serving the post codes of NN1, NN2, NN5 and so on...and I had chosen the depot that served all other postal codes but mine. Fourth attempt strike-out.
The next adventure involved a 15-mile backtrack to this rather smelly little post office near my apartment where the woman behind the counter informed me that I hadn't reached the post depot, but rather just a mail office; lovely. Fifth attempt.
Patience wearing thin, the postal depot that proved as easy to find as Narnia was finally found and the line was literally out the door. After standing in line and explaining, for about the 72nd time, my quest to find this bleep-ing gift, the woman behind the counter took my information, checked her whizzy little computer and cheerfully informed me that my tracking number had nothing to do with Royal Mail and I had to contact the other major courier, ParcelForce. Sixth attempt.
On the drive back to my apartment, of course we hit heavy traffic. I found the phone number for ParcelForce and managed to get through...to a waiting line for a call centre. Teeth-grittingly wonderful. I am finally answered, explain my story for now the 117th time and the next unhelpful woman in my encounters cheerfully informed me that my parcel had been in the UK since December 3. Lucky number 7 it seems.
Without trying to sound like a shrieking banshee, I asked why I was not informed that my parcel had arrived. The woman informed me that there was a customs charge on it that needed to be paid. Fine and fair enough I replied and then sweetly enquired how in the sweet mother of everything holy was I expected to pay the customs charge if I was never informed of the package arriving in the UK?! Somewhat sheepishly, Miss ParcelForce said that there must have been a slight oversight and my letter just must have been left out. She then asked me if I wanted to pay an additional extortionate amount to have it delivered to me the next day. I politely (mentally) told her to stuff it and (verbally) asked what my other options were. I decided on a Christmas Eve delivery and then had another little spat about the concept of leaving the package at the front desk and that I was not, in fact, going to wait outside my building between the hours of 8AM and 5PM to get the.........wonderful........thing. Really, it was probably safer for Mr/Mrs ParceForce delivery-person that we never meet.
So, seven attempts and a few spikes in blood pressure later...
See how pretty it is?!
Alright, it was definitely worth it in the long run. I'm looking forward to my first truly British Christmas tomorrow; even if I am thinking of friends and family far across the Atlantic. First Christmas away from home in all my 25 years and I'm pretty excited about it. Now. I have milk and cookies to leave for the fat man.
And, on that note...a Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
