Yesterday, whilst I was in the bath, trying to grab five minutes to myself to wash my hair, I almost missed the delivery of my very first GlossyBox.
Picture the scene:
There I am, head submerged, listening to my own heartbeat, when my peace and relative calm is shattered by a loud knocking. Someone at the door, how damn TYPICAL. I gingerly open one eye and there, gurning down at me, is Elliot-kid, block in hand, banging on the side of the bath. Fine, at least I know where he is, and at least he is not ripping pages out of Ruby’s books or trying to get down the stairs, or emptying the contents of my bedside cabinet all over the floor (NO, Elliot, you CAN’T have Mummy’s Sertraline). Banging on the side of the bath I can deal with. Eye shut again, swish my hair about, pretend that I am Ariel.
“I wanna be, where the people are….”
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. All right, boyo, I get it.
I am just getting out of the bath when I hear it. Something is getting pushed through the letterbox and instantly I know exactly what it is. Could it be, that at the same time Elliot was bashing the bath with a green triangular shaped wooden block, the postman was knocking on the door to supply me with cosmetics? Why yes, yes it could.
I think this is the point where most people would just shrug and resign themselves to a trip to the sorting office the next day, Sorry We Missed You card in hand, and wait in the stale-smelling, dingy, sad little waiting area whilst bored staff rifle through shelf after shelf of missed deliveries.
Well, I am not most people, and I do not care for the sorting office, AND I WANT MY GLOSSYBOX DAMN IT. I threw a towel over myself, scooped up the baby and ran down the stairs. Flung open the front door and gesticulated wildly at the Royal Mail van which was now driving off down the street. Maybe he’ll see me in his mirrors!?!
Well, as my luck would have it, our postman is *incredibly* lazy. That van stopped TWO HOUSES DOWN, and out he popped with another parcel. Honestly, it would have been quicker for him to walk. I can’t quite believe he actually got back in his van, and drove not more than fifty metres down the road. But anyway, he did. And this is where it gets very embarrassing, not quite as embarrassing as when I unwittingly almost tried to smuggle my own wee into Italy, but a bit shameful nonetheless. Because I yelled and waved at the top of my voice to get his attention and when he looked, I brandished my Sorry We Missed You card in his general direction, whilst at the same time attempting (and failing) to keep my towel on, and keep my son from launching himself off my hip.
The postie did come back, but I could barely look him in the eye. That dude totally saw nip.
But HOORAH! Glossybox in hand, and a very incredulous look from my three year old, who had been standing behind me, watching me flail around like a loony.
Was it worth it? Heck yes. Would I give the postman another treat? Probably not. Instead I’ll stop pretending I am a mermaid in the bath and listen out for the door. You know, like a grown up.