I am, on the whole, a 'live and let live' kind of person. But this weekend the Post Office managed to turn me briefly into a Jeremy Clarkson clone.
(For non-UK readers, Jeremy Clarkson is a broadcaster on the popular British car show Top Gear, famed for ranting on about anything and everything, for having a viewpoint slightly to the right of the typical fascist dictator, and for getting up everyone's nose, while still managing to be highly entertaining.)
I had a piece of urgent post to get into the mail, so rather than pop it in the village postbox, I drove over to the Swindon sorting office. It was 2pm on Saturday. Plenty of time, I thought, for my letter to arrive promptly in the mail on Monday morning. After all, on a weekday I can post something in the village at 4.30pm and have it arrive next morning - here I was sticking the envelope straight into the mighty sorting machinery.
But when I arrived, the helpful 'last posting' notice told me that the latest I could send something for Monday morning was 1pm on Saturday. I'm sorry, but to take from 2pm on Saturday until Tuesday to arrive - when I posted it at the sorting office - is a joke. And not a very good one. Just pass me the frizzy Clarkson hair wig, hand me the keys to a 4x4, and give me a ecologicalist to torment. I'm not in a good mood.