Since I arrived back last week from my sojourn under bluer skies, a dearth of compost has been thwarting my horticultural endeavours. Thus, this morning I had a pallet of thirty six, twenty five kilo bags delivered. And no — this is not another woeful pallet tale.
The delivery guy rocks up, backs halfway down my driveway to deposit the pallet close to the Dome, then hops out of the truck to greet me and my accompanying pooches. The moment he produces a bag of dog treats I know he's going to be trouble. Never trust a delivery man who has to travel with treats.
Anyway, he lowers the back of the truck, lifts the pallet with his little forklift, and attempts to wheel it from the truck onto the grass. Problem. The wheels spin, but that forklift ain’t liftin’. So I stand there, making clever suggestions, while he makes repeated attempts to do exactly the same thing, apparently expecting a different result. The pallet remains firmly planted in the middle of the driveway.
“I’ll move the truck forward a bit,” says he, jumping into the cab, giving me a cheery thumbs-up, and appearing to make good his escape.
Over my dead body!
I dart in front of the truck, shouting and gesticulating wildly to indicate that the pallet cannot, under any circumstances, be left blocking my driveway.
“But I can’t move it,” he tells me.
“Well then I’m calling your company,” I reply.
Now I’m the friendly sort. I don’t make difficulties and I rarely shout. But this was ridiculous. What exactly was I supposed to do with 900kg of compost marooned in the middle of the driveway?
Is this truck or is this truck not driving away?
I headed to the house for the phone and returned to find him moving the bags one by one onto the grass.
“I thought you were leaving,” I said.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he replied.
“Well, you gave me the thumbs-up and attempted to drive away.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he repeated.
So together we hefted the 36 bags of compost onto the grass, after which I thanked him, deposited twenty quid in his hot little hand and he drove off into the sunset, muttering darkly about stupid old hags.
I loathe confrontation.
Could I have handled it differently?
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