More Bad Language

The Lovely Maureen will go and see her Post Office again this afternoon and challenge them with:

"What are you going to to about it?"

If she gets no joy I will ring them up every hour on the hour until I can speak to the manager and calmly, but angrily explain the heart-ache and peptic ulcers that are now being created at this very minute.

The parcel is insured, so I will get some money back if it is lost completely, but I don't know if I can claim anything if, for example, it is delivered in two weeks time, or at Christmas, or in 2011.

Mother-fucking Post Office cunts. I am livid. Cannot relax, cannot concentrate on work. What I really hate is that

(a) I wanted to bring you a tiny drop of golden pleasure into your sordid, wretched, despondent little life

and

(b) an almost complete stranger, i.e. The Lovely Maureen, is having to run around on a work day, using up her precious time, for us. She doesn't even know if we are worth it! I will be buying her a MASSIVE drink or three this weekend when we meet her, what ever the outcome.

So, three people's stress levels are being crurrently hammered by one fucking idiot who didn't use his bastarding bugger bar-code scannie-thingie correctly.

You know the bitter irony is that if I had asked her to post them in a normal envelope with a normal stamp I probably would have rec'd the tix two days ago.

Shit. Arse. Bum.

Antipo

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