‘Twas the night before, the night before Christmas...

Seeing my wife in tears did it: her sheer, heartbroken disappointment.  Misery had chiselled despair into her face. That look pressed me to insist on her taking a bath so that I could do something I had sworn I would never do again: make a phone call of complaint.

I thought about starting with sure footing: an email: my preferred method.  I am a teacher of English by vocation; writing to complain always makes me feel like I possessed an advantage.  However, it was Christmas.  Despite my wife’s disappointment, I wanted to maintain a sense of fair play and calmness.  I wanted to maintain a feeling of being kind, and not cruel, bullying or condescending.  I wanted to give the craven cretins involved a chance to explain themselves.

On the surface what had happened was simple, and entirely a first world problem.  My wife had ordered two hampers for both sets of our parents from a charity that supports those who suffer from cancer.  We had both experienced the blight of that villainous disease through family members on either side.  My sister fought it and survived.  My wife’s father suffered it and passed away.

A month after the order, which was made in November, the hampers had still not arrived.  On the 17^th of December my wife, a patient woman, investigated and on the 23^rd of December, the charity informed her that the delivery had one awry, that it had apparently been delivered and that the delivery man signed for the package when no one answered the door.

“When?” my wife asked.

“Monday the 12^th of December,” the charity’s agent replied.

“But I was in all day,” my wife said.

“Oh,” came the pregnant reply.

The mystery deepened: had the package been delivered to the wrong address and squirrelled away by nefarious residents?  Had the delivery driver pilfered the produce?  No one could say: hence my wife’s heartbreak.

Given that it was so close to Christmas, there was no resolution that could help anyone sufficiently, but someone was to blame, and that person deserved a fly in their ear… or a thump across their skull, be it career, emotional, or literal.

My task seemed Sisyphean, but I was dedicated.  Still, I was a bit startled when I rang the delivery company and got an answer after being on hold for less than a minute.

The agent for the delivery company, a famous global brand, was attentive and helpful.  Her name was Alice, and she took my details with sincere courtesy, completely understanding my dismay and expressing her seasonal sympathies for my poor wife.  She then unfurled one of the most ludicrous things I have ever heard in my whole life.

“It seems,” Alice began, “that the package was never actually delivered, that someone scanned it at the wrong stage and that it actually remains somewhere in our depot.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.  “It’s probably somewhere on the warehouse floor.”

“Brilliant!” I exclaimed.  “What do we do now?”

And that’s when she said it.

“Well,” Alice began, “we need you to contact the charity and get them to request an investigation with us.  We can proceed from there.”

Silence on the phone.

“Hello?” Alice enquired.  “Are you still there?”

“Yes… I’m still here.  I’m just a tad confused,” I said.

“What’s wrong?” asked Alice.

“Bear with me whilst I go over this again,” I said.  My tone was heavy with the incredulous smile I was wearing.

“Go ahead,” said Alice.

“So… you’re saying that I, the husband of the aggrieved customer, need to contact the charity who sent the hampers, so that they can contact you, the delivery company, to get you to begin an investigation which will result in someone in your Belfast depot, having to go and look for the package that has disappeared.”

“Exactly!” said Alice, delightedly.  “That is exactly it.”

Silence again.

“Forgive me if I seem a bit thick,” I said, “but couldn’t you call the Belfast depot and get someone there, from your company, to just go looking for the package?”

“Oh no,” Alice said.  “We have a policy to maintain.”

“But… and again, please forgive me if I seem somewhat addled in my thinking, isn’t your policy inconveniencing me and the charity, when a simple phone call from you to the depot in question, could potentially clear this whole thing up?”

“You’re not addled at all,” said Alice.  “In fact, may I say that you are one of the most eloquent complainants that I have ever dealt with?”

“Right,” I said.  I felt like I someone was pulling a prank on me, that there was some, as yet unrevealed, yet nefarious clown somewhere in the background, who was conducting an elaborate jape.

“Do you hear how bizarre this all sounds, Alice?” I asked.

“Yes, yes it does seem a tad bizarre, but I have to follow this protocol.”

There was a change in the tone.  It was subtle, but definite, a note of pleading born from someone who sees the bizarre nature of their role, but who sits with a legion of loathsome lawyers and bestial bureaucrats breathing down their exposed neck.

“Okay,” I said wearily.  “Thank you, Alice.”

“No, thank you,” Alice said quietly.  “And Merry Christmas.”

“You too, Alice,” I replied.  The boulder I was pushing was beginning to feel heavier and heavier.

My next phone-call was to the charity.  Again, the call was answered with remarkable speed, and I found myself dealing with another pleasant agent: Jill.

“Ok,” I began, “please try not to laugh as I unfurl this, but here goes.”

I related the entire process to which I felt Jill and I were now committed, like a group of World War II commandos on their way to blow up the guns of Navarone.

Once I had filled Jill in on what the delivery company had asked me to do, her response fitted my viewpoint entirely: “Are you serious?”

“Yep!”

“Why couldn’t they just call down?” Jill asked.

“Exactly what I said,” I replied wearily.

“I mean, where’s the common sense?”

“Where indeed,” I said.

“I mean, it’s the 23^rd of December!” Jill said, her passion igniting like a magnesium strip, bright and difficult to bear.

“So,” I began, “can you complain on behalf of your company?”

“Oh, I intend to!” Jill exclaimed.

Vive la révolution, I thought.

“But I’ll need to fill in some details first,” Jill said.

Oh, for pity’s sake, I thought.

And so, I set out upon another bout of queries, dispensing my contact information for another time, feeling the boulder’s journey up the slope must be reaching its end.

It was.

I said goodbye to Jill, leaving the matter in her indignant and well-informed hands, releasing her like an arrow aimed at the heart of bureaucratic injustice… fired from the bow of an alternative mode of bureaucracy, but a nobler, better-intentioned brand.  The boulder crested the lip of the slope, and then I heard the raised voices. At my front door.

I ran into the hallway and saw my wife, wrapped in a bath robe and balancing a towel swirled like a Mister Whippy ice cream on top of her head, venting her spleen upon a man, dressed in a dark Adidas tracksuit, with a matching Adidas cap perched on his head.  Beyond him a battered Renault Clio was chuffing unhealthily at the mouth of our driveway.  At his feet was a large cardboard box.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

My wife turned to speak when the delivery man spoke.  His voice held the nasally sharp and brittle tones of the most cutting Belfast accent.

“Here mate, your missus is bonkers!”

“Pardon?” I asked.

“She’s mental!”

“Say again.”

“Here’s I,” he began, “delivering Christmas cheer with this here charity package, and she goes loopy, snapping about how late is this, how long did this take, blah blah blah!” He waved his arms about like he was teetering on a tightrope.

“Right,” I noted.  I could feel the boulder balance.  I had everything I needed now, all could be well… if, once again, it wasn’t for the sad towel balancing face before me.  Despite her distress, I almost managed to move on when the delivery man sealed his fate and caused the boulder to roll away.

“Better late than never!” he said.

“So close,” I murmured.  “Merry Christmas, petal.”  I kissed my wife on her forehead, turned, smiled and punched the prat in the middle of his snarky face.

I’ll admit that, half an hour later, nothing could have made me feel more Christmassy than the flashing blue lights that bathed our house in a such a heart-warming wintry glow.