Royal Mail: A Royal Pain in the. . .

Found this on a blog about Royal Mail dysfunction. Second that, mate

Our flat comes conveniently equipped with two things: a mail slot for letters, magazines and fliers from takeaway restaurants, and a buzzer for larger packages or things that require a signature to be delivered. My parents sent me a package this past week, which I expected to sign for when it arrived. The Royal Mail service, known for its efficiency but apparently not its initiative, chose not to utilize the buzzer method.

How do I know? I was in my room reading when I heard the mail drop through the slot. I went out to get the mail, and retrieved a form with several check boxes, on which was written an address where I could pick up my package. The check box for "we tried to deliver your package but. . ." was not checked. Twats. Anyway.

The London Transportation Authority has a "Journey Planner" on their website which I had utilized before as a useful tool for figuring out the quickest and most convenient way to get from point A to point B. It told me which bus to take, which stop to get off, and that it would be an approximate 2 minute walk to my destination. No problem, I thought.

So I undertook my first ever bus ride by myself to the nearby town of East Ham. The announcement system on this particular bus ran on a delay, so it rarely announced each stop until miliseconds before, or sometimes slightly after the stop, leading to a pissed off bus driver and lost passengers. Never fear, loyal readers! Some other (less confused) traveler was getting off at my prescribed stop, so I thought I was good to go. And miracle of miracles! A post office sign gleamed just a few steps away from the bus stop. Success.

Or not. I showed my little card to the post office attendant who smiled and politely informed me I wanted the Canning Town post office, not the East Ham one. "Just go down Barking Road," he said. "All the way into Canning Town." Thanks, Journey Planner. Some two-minute walk. It apparently didn't realize WHICH post office I wanted, just that I wanted one. There's British efficiency for you. Just to give you an idea, the East Ham post office was located at 860-something Barking Road. The East Ham post office sat at 22. And these are not New York City blocks, people. Good thing it wasn't raining.

So I walked. And I walked. I passed chip and kebab shops, discount grocery stores, a few funeral parlors, and some curious-looking Middle Eastern men who seemed perturbed that this confused-looking white girl was wandering through their neighborhood. An hour or so later, I finally reached the Canning Town post office to retrieve my package.

Holy giant box, batman. I wish I had taken a picture of this thing before I dismantled it, but this box was not fooling around. It was large. It was unwieldy. And it weighed a TON. Trekking the odyssey back to East Ham was not only unappealing, it was clearly not an option if I and my new friend Mr. Box wanted to arrive in one piece. So it was back to the buses for me.

A quick word to the wise: when reading a bus route, make sure you don't misinterpret the little filled-in line. The white part is already-traveled. The black part is yet-to-travel. If you invert them, you will sit on the bus for one stop (approximately a block) congratulating yourself before the bus driver informs you the route ends there and you have to get off. It's fun, trust me.

I never thought about this before, but this is a wonderful invention

Another word to the wise: don't attempt to haul a bigass box three towns away during school rush hour. That's the magical time when all the schools along the route let out at the same time and hoardes of miniature Britons in uniforms crowd onto the bus. I never thought I'd extol the virtues of private school bus services, but let me tell you, there is nothing more titilating than being crammed (with Mr. Box cutting off your leg circulation) onto a hot, sweaty bus with crowds of screaming schoolchildren and the bus driver standing up and yelling at everyone to make more room at each stop. On the bright side, at least this time I was marginally sure I had boarded the correct bus. Sort of.

Getting off the bus was another challenge, but after an hour and a half of this sardine stuff, I was more than happy to cheerfully to take out a few cranky British mini-blokes to get me and Mr. Box safely on our way. The closest stop to my school was a fifteen-minute walk back to campus, but let me tell you, it felt downright good after cramming in with the kiddies.

Moral of this story? Packages are fun, welcome and appreciated. Royal Mail carriers who refuse to deliver them are not. But hey, at least I figured out the bus system and familiarized myself with the ghetto between East Ham and Canning Town. Live and learn, ladies and gents. Live and learn.