The mail carrier had a package for me today. It was my new Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall meat cookbook. But instead of bringing it to the porch and knocking on the door, she stuck a "Sorry We Missed You!" note in the mailbox, without ever leaving the comfort of her car. She didn't "miss us." She didn't even check to see if we were home. Now I can't get the book until Monday, and I personally have to drive to Union Point to pick it up.
This isn't the first time she's done this to us. This is workplace slackassery of a caliber not even I am capable of.
Unholy bitch! I want my book!