Look, I didn’t ask for much. All I wanted was a cute little bikini and shorts set for my holiday. I found one on Shein, and there were only 10 left. TEN. So instead of playing basket Tetris to hit the free delivery minimum like a normal person, I just paid the full whack for premium delivery. I thought, “Treat yourself. You deserve it.” Big mistake.
Fast forward to today and the email lands.
“Your parcel is out for delivery with Yodel.”
Cue internal scream. Because Yodel and I? We’ve got history. The kind where they lie to your face and still expect a five-star rating.
A few hours later: “Delivered to your front porch.”
Brilliant, I think. I was out at the time, so I figure, ideal, it’s in my safe place. I’ll grab it when I get home, no drama.
Except… I get home, and there’s no parcel. Not in the porch. Not behind the bins. Not hurled over the back gate in a fit of passive-aggressive delivery rage (which, by the way, wouldn’t have worked anyway because I don’t have a back gate). No note, no nothing.
So now I’m just stood there, tired, confused, and very nearly gaslighting myself like:
“Have I dreamt this? Did I hallucinate buying a bikini?”
Naturally, I went full on FBI. I contacted Yodel straight away via their “chat service” and I’m using the term service very fucking loosely here — and eventually got hold of a grainy photo of a random porch. Not mine. Not even similar to mine. Different bricks, different handle, different bloody house.
So now I’m stood in my bedroom window like a creepy curtain twitcher, squinting at the houses on my street thinking,
“Right… whose door opens that way?”
“Do those bricks look too orangey?”
“Does that handle match?”
Basically playing House Tinder now, swipe left on everyone without a matching doormat.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Why didn’t you just knock on a few doors?”
Because I’m not mentally equipped for that kind of confrontation, thanks. I’ve had a long day, I’m emotionally unstable, and the idea of knocking, being ignored, then doing the walk of shame back to my own door while the whole street watches from behind their blinds like I’m part of some local amateur dramatics production called “Desperate Woman Wants Her Parcel Back”?
No. I’d rather not but thanks anyway.
Eventually, I narrowed it down. The bricks matched. The porch handle matched. The door mat matched. It was Number 18. I know it. I felt it in my soul. But of course, only one car was on the drive, so I knew if I knocked and no one answered, I’d have to return for Round Two — which is worse than death. So I waited. Manifested. Had a small breakdown and wrote a note like some kind of passive-aggressive fairy godmother.
After what felt like an eternity, I decided to knock on their door, and you guessed it – they didn’t answer!
So I popped the note through the letter box, sweating like I’d just committed a crime. And now? Now I wait. Because someone out there is sitting on my bikini. And if, if, I ever get it back, after all this, it better fucking fit.
If not, I’m flinging it straight back in their porch like a cursed boomerang.
Lottie x
Thirty Something Plus VAT 