Optimal Prime

Another day, and we’ve still got a plethora of noodle soups and some energy drinks sitting in the front room. I think we should just about start accepting that they are ours now and no-one wants them back in any way, shape or form. I can’t wait for a day when I’m feeling run down to just crack those cans open and be so hopped up on caffeine and sugar that I physically vibrate. Happy days.

I chanced an Amazon delivery today as well – not from Prime Now, just from the website – and disappointingly I only received what I ordered. Not that I was expecting anything else – our house isn’t big enough to cope with extra unordered items every time – but they have set a precedence now.

Carole asked if I’d tried to give them the bag of stuff back when they arrived. I did consider it. But then what? If anyone ever does get in touch and want this stuff back I’m not sure they’d appreciate a vague answer that I gave it to two foreign gentleman in a van.

Because I got a trainee delivery guy today. A man who was, I think, terrified. I think that’s a fair assessment. Definitely nervous. But more edging into full on fear.

I opened the door and he practically threw the box at me, shouting “Amazon delivery!” and turning to leave.

Before sheepishly having to return to the door because he’d not scanned the parcel with his phone scanner thingummy-guffin to say that it had been delivered. And even after that I was expecting a further knock on the door and to find him, hovering, because he needed a signature or his scanner hadn’t worked or something. Or he’d given me the wrong box and I was about to open a birthday cake and a copy of Call of Duty. But stuff like that doesn’t happen, obviously.

Obviously he’ll just be doing that job for a short while, anyway. Because one Brexit kicks in, Amazon Prime deliveries go right out of the window as everyone who currently delivers them is driven from the country by angry mobs with pitchforks and flaming torches.

And then someone will complain that something they ordered days ago hasn’t been delivered yet, and they’ll realise what they’ve done and be sad.

 

 

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The Heat Was On

Well, the heating plan backfired in spectacular fashion.

It won me some brownie points from Carole as she slid out of bed into the warmed air of the house. But up until that point it was just two people lying in bed sweating like buggery because it was so warm.

In fact, it was so warm in the house – from only a brief bit of heating – that when I got out of bed after Carole had left for work, I found all the windows open and the house quite nippy. Practically the complete opposite of the warming luxury that Carole awoke to.

But god it was hot.

Carole was sleeping under two duvets, so she was sweltering. And I’m not a massive fan of hugely warm beds… so, yeah, I’m really glad I set the heating to come on like I did.

I’ve turned it off now. That’s it. We tried. It failed miserably. We won’t be trying again until the frost is thick on the ground and you have to snap the icicles off the shower before you can use it.

In other news, Amazon seemingly don’t care about their mis-delivered parcel. Which is all well and good but Daniel is coming to visit on Thursday. And one of his very, very special skills is to sniff out food. One Christmas he went to our fridge to get a drink and was gone an awfully long time – it turns out he was devouring a copious amount of leftover turkey and all the trimmings. I’m worried that he’s going to sniff out the chocolate cake and we’re going to get up in the morning to find him gone (he’s leaving at 3am to go to Spain or something) and just a chocolatey fork and some crumbs in his bed.

That’s assuming the chocolatey goodness survived the furnace-like heat of the house this morning…

Think Warm Thoughts

I’ve had to put the heating on.

I’m not happy about it. I am notoriously tight when it comes to the heating. I’m a big believer in layering. If you’re cold, stick a jumper on. But Carole’s taken to meandering round the house in thick jogging trousers and a jumper. And then tops it off with a shawl. A bloody shawl.

Which, incidentally, she leaves lying around every now and again so if you’re not paying attention you could be under the belief that she’s disappeared while fighting Darth Vader.

So the heating’s on.

But it’s on to my standards, not Carole’s.

Which is to say it’ll go on for a bit and then stop. And maybe go on a bit later. Carole is a big, big believer in whacking the heating on solid for three or four hours at a time burning through units of gas like a stereotypical pyromaniac through the stereotypical orphanage he grew up in.

And then, when it gets to about March or April and British Gas have done their sixth monthly review of what we’re paying, I’ll receive a text message from Carole saying, “The gas has gone up to….” and then listing an extortionate figure. And every year I have to say that it’s because she made the house almost as hot as the blast when they launch space shuttles. And that just buying a jumper would be cheaper.

But she is right.

It is getting a bit nippy.

There’s a definite autumnal nip in the air. Two days ago I was sweating like a fat lad in a cake shop because it was stupidly warm and today I’m considering starting to wear socks around the house. Which is not a road I travel lightly, my friends.

I’ve even been super nice and set the heating to come on in the morning, so that it takes the chill off the house, for when Carole gets up and I remain cocooned in bed for a little while longer.

I mean, it’s only coming on for about half an hour. And even that makes me shudder as I think of the figures on my spreadsheet…

But still, it’s the thought that counts, right?

 

Lies

CAKE UPDATE: It turns out that the weight of a large, dense chocolate cake pressing down on itself because it’s been put in a bag horizontally is detrimental to the health of the cake. It is slowly crushing itself to death. And, more importantly, still here. Seemingly forever.

Carole was besmirching my good name again yesterday.

The Sainsbury’s delivery driver was one of the regulars and, if I’m honest, probably my favourite of the bunch. He is the one who asked, earlier this year, where I was as Carole was the one taking the shopping in. He refers to me as the big guy. I wasn’t happy about it, but as it’s him I’ll accept it.

Yesterday he knocked on the door and Carole opened it. He again asked as to my whereabouts. Now, this time, I wasn’t out at work. I was upstairs. In bed. I’d had a late shift the night before, not much sleep and was a bit pooped. So I was enjoying a lie in. Of sorts.

But I had to call time on it. Because of Carole’s explanation of where I was.

“No, he’s in bed,” she said. “The lazy so-and-so.”

I was in bed. I was being lazy. Those are both true.

BUT

I had set my alarm for thirty minutes before the delivery window was due to start. I had woken myself up, despite the excitement of little sleep, to ensure that I was there to get the shopping in. Because I am dedicated like that. And because Carole questions everything that gets delivered. So it’s much quicker when I do it.

It was not my idea to still be in bed. Carole said to me, “Oh no, you stay in bed. I’ll get the shopping in…”

And then she has the bloody cheek to tell the guy that I was just being lazy.

I got up and dressed in super-quick time and made a point of going down stairs. Trying me best not to look like I had just leapt out of bed, annoyed at the sheer cheek of the woman.

I’m not sure I pulled it off, if we’re 100% honest.

But still… I’m not having my name dragged through the mud like that. I just won’t stand for it. Or, in this case, lie for it.

I tried to have another lie in today. Carole had been awake for a while, so decided to come back to bed and have a chat with me. Which obviously demanded that I be awake.

I’ll try again tomorrow, once she’s left for the gym. Surely she can’t get to me then…

 

 

Cake Expirations

Up to press, all I have had from Amazon with regards to yesterday’s nerd kit is three emails acknowledging my email. All with different response times on them.

By the time they come back to me that chocolate cakes is going to be as good as dead. Expired. Best before a time long gone.

We are a household who has been known, on occassion (mainly every Christmas) to open confectionary-based gifts we have bought for other people and eat them ourselves, replacing the present at a later date. It’s shameful, yes, but when you know there’s a chocolate orange in the house…

It’s almost the same with this chocolate cake. If I’d not said anything to Amazon about even having this bundle, I could be enjoying slices of Morrison’s finest cake. Many, many slices. And then be racked with guilt that Amazon would find out and have me whacked. Or worse, blacklisted.

Instead, we have to sit idly by while a perfectly good (I assume) cake just whithers and dies next to us. We are like the family gathered round the bed of a dying loved one, just waitibg for that last crumb to dry out and the final breath of moisture to leave the body.

The cake’s the only bit that’s dying. The noodles will survive an apocalypse and there’s so many preservatives in that energy drink that it’ll still be here when the sun expands and swallows the planet.

Obviously CoD is losing value with every day it’s out. Were I to take it to Game ir some other reputable retailer for trade in I’d probably get almost a fiver before they boshed it back on the shelf for fifty quid. If I took it tomorrow, maybe three pounds. By Tuesday it’ll be worthless.

Just like the cake.

It’s awful to see suffering like that and being powerless to do anything…