In their place, we took on a subscription to The Independent. Arrives every day before 7am (actually, between 3 and 4am by the looks of it), and promotes the sitting down and taking a break proper, with coffee and newspaper, instead of having breakfast or lunch over email, sandwich in one and computer mouse in the other hand.
This is the plan.
There were start-up difficulties, though. Although every courier service operating in this country has managed to find our house, the milkman, the post man, the gas meter reading man, and many others, the newspaper delivery man does not.
Not on day one anyways, so I phone. Apologies and credit for the missing paper offered and accepted. Promises made for the next day.
No paper on day two. Apologies, and promises for the next day.
No paper on day three. Apologies, and a different person at their end, who sorts it out.
Apparently, they have been delivering to the wrong house in the right street. I am not quite sure how my delivery instructions could have been misread (or the house number), but what bugs me most is that someone in my street received an unexpected newspaper for three consecutive days, with my full name and address on an A4-sized label, and hasn’t bothered to forward it to me, or to phone or email the distribution company (contact details also on the same label).
What’s that? Rude? Dishonest? Anti-social? I am not sure what word to chose, but I hate it.
Day four and following: sit-down breakfast and lunch, with coffee and newspaper. Nice!