2003-12-04 - 1:25 p.m.

So I finally updated my steam-powered transistor radio and bought into the DVD revolution, which I understand happened in about 1998. I ordered a cheap but functional multi-regional doo-hickey from a certain well known online book store, who kindly said they would deliver it to my house at no expense to my good self, which pleased me in a way I haven�t felt since that summer I had to help my grandmother out of the bath.

The day approached and I was unexpectedly called into work, an offer I couldn�t refuse seeing as my bank account is as empty as the �charges against the prisoner� column on a Guantanamo Bay transfer form. Our neighbours have always been more than kind at holding onto electrical goods, specialist printed matter and mandatory court orders in our absence, though, so I wasn�t unduly perturbed.

I arrived home, hollering my cheery halloos to my housemates, who traditionally await my arrival with puppylike attentiveness, only without the licking or my having to feed them bits of chopped-up horse. As expected, the postcard informing me of the aborted delivery attempt lay there in the hallway, and I picked it up to see which of our delightful non-English speaking neighbours I would have to wrestle the goods from. My eyes scanned the line which reads �We have left your parcel��, but failed to recognise the scrawled address, done as it was in the postie�s childlike daubing. After some amount of squinting, I realised, to my immediate surprise that it said �Behind the dustbins�.

Rushing outside to confirm this information, I saw that in his offloading frenzy, the dopey posttard, had put my gleaming digital machine behind some makeshift barrier that he had hastily constructed by moving out bins to make some kind of refuse-surrounded haven. There the box lie, exposed to the elements or the vagaries of our rubbish collection operatives, who will remove anything in the garden not welded down.

This is, of course, before you even consider the security issue. Telling me that you�ve left unopened, unprotected electrical goods in our garden is tantamount to saying, �Here�s the address of several of your local gun-toting crack dealers, you must infiltrate their gangs, work your way up to a trusted senior position and then politely ask for your goods back�. Since when has �delivery� amounted to tossing the box into a badly sheltered puddle in full view of the street and its DVD player-coveting denizens? Never! That�s when!

As soon as I can locate a customer complaints number, I�m going to let them feel the wrath of my slightly sterner than usual voice. Thundering typhoons, I�m�kind of slightly annoyed, I guess.