Because I’m a busy, working and active woman (read: lazy), I often order my monthly food shop online. On the face of it, having groceries ferried directly to your door at a chosen time seems attractively convenient.
Attempting to commandeer a wayward trolley – there’s always at least one wonky wheel – in search of that elusive last bag of farfalle is a trial I do my best to avoid. The reality of late deliveries, substitute items (oh dear, courgettes aren’t in stock. Here, have a watermelon!) and finding everything liberally coated in leaked shampoo sometimes makes me wonder which method is really worse.
I’ve got my own online shopping story to tell, and it’s a real doozy. My tale begins with a phone call: the delivery van has broken down. Yay! He’ll be about an hour later than scheduled. Is that okay? I suppose it’ll have to be. After all, I didn’t book a specific delivery time and wait patiently at home forany particular reason, now did I?
The driver finally arrived, and plonked the first crate down in front of me to be emptied. As I peeked into a bag to make sure my pak choi was in one piece, something didn’t feel quite right. There was nothing in the bag that I recognised. Clearly, this was not my food.
So I pointed that out. “I didn’t order this.”, I said, in as moderated a voice as I could manage. I considered that a reasonable enough thing to say given the circumstances. When an unusual item has mistakenly arrived on your doorstep, it’s normally whisked away without another word. This particular driver, however, definitely sees the world in absolutes. “No, it’s got your order number on the box, look. It’s your food.”
He replied just as I was rifling through a bag of assorted Quorn products, and at that point I was certain there’d been a heinous error. Anyone who knows me well should also know that I consider Quorn anathema. If I’d genuinely ordered it, the apocalypse was nigh. So I contested him again.
“I didn’t order this.”
“It’s your order number, so it’s your food.”
“These items aren’t mine.”
“It’s your delivery slot, your box, and your order. It’s your food.”
“This food isn’t even on my receipt, look.” *waves receipt in face*
“It’s your food. It says so on the box.”
We carried on like this back and forth for a little while, until the driver suddenly realised it might be a good idea to scan the barcode on the box, with the handset he’d been gripping like it contained the secret to eternal life, and confirm whose order it actually was. He duly scanned the barcode. The handset went ‘bleep!’ in a mildly ominous tone.
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, and then he spoke abruptly in a voice like a deflated balloon.
“Oh. This isn’t your food.”
While I stuffed my fist into my mouth to prevent myself from screaming obscenities, he nonchalantly trundled off to go and find my actual order. Come back, wonky trolley, all is forgiven.
