The anticipation of waiting for an Amazon parcel has stepped up a notch since lockdown begun. Before, if I ended up being out somewhere or at work when a parcel was due, it was no biggie. The contents of that package was not the be all and end all. It was not the highlight of my day. Or even my week.
I log onto my Amazon account and my heart leaps for joy. Arriving today by 8PM. “Today is the day!” I sing to Aaron and, because I have been speaking about this delivery for the last two weeks and four days, he knows exactly what I am talking about.
“I have to leave in ten,” Aaron warns me.
“I need to wash my hair,” I moan, knowing I need to jump on it to ensure there is no chance there is even a minute where someone isn’t available to answer the door.
The same eight notes of the Mission Impossible theme tune ring through my mind as I run from room to room. I maximise efficiency by brushing my teeth in the shower and choosing to skip conditioning. I change into my waiting-for-a-delivery ensemble and check the time on my Garmin; it’s been nine minutes. I flick to the resting heart beat screen and watch as it shoots up at the sound of the doorbell.
I run to the living room; Aaron is nowhere to be seen. But that doesn’t matter because it’s finally time. I reach the door and after a brief moment of fumbling with the lock, I open it to say “Thanks!” to the delivery driver, who is back in their van, and pause as I bend down to pick up the grey package at my feet. I feel its contents, kidding myself that it still might somehow be my Amazon delivery. Two objects hidden beneath the plastic confirm it is not.
When Aaron returns home he finds me peeking out of the window, surveying the situation outside; on the look out for the red van of my dreams. I say nothing to his “Is it not here yet?” and instead allow him to follow my glare to his parcel sat on the table.
“What?!” he exclaims. “I only ordered this yesterday!”
The next hour unfolds slowly as I watch Aaron play with his new toys; stick on wall velcro and a mini stainless steel jug. “Your stuff isn’t even fun,” I sulk.
Aaron spends the hour after that putting up our new framed art and rewards himself by making us both a coffee. He places said coffee next to my impatient fingers, tapping the table as I try to focus my energy on anything other than going onto the Royal Mail website to track my parcel.
“Is my stuff fun now?” he asks, looking for a compliment on the, to be fair, pretty spectacular coffee in front of me. “It’s frothier than when I use the old jug, isn’t it?” Aaron begins his detailed explanation of the difference between the two jugs and the science behind frothing milk.
I search my tracking code on Royal Mail.
The parcel arrives, as fate would have it, minutes before 8PM. “Thank you!” I beam at the delivery driver stood back by their van. I look at the parcel at my feet, bemused at how the arrival of this rectangular brown box dictated my day, and my mood. I think of all of the wonderful people working their jobs in the outside world during this climate, while I have the privilege of staying at home all day, wondering where they are.
“Thank you again!” I say, with more meaning, as they get into their van and nod at me, slowly this time, as if I have something on my face.
After I close the door, I hastily open the parcel, gaining a cardboard-cut on the inside of an index finger. I lift each side of the beautiful brown doors that are tattooed with amazon.co.uk, to reveal the box I have waited almost three weeks for. I lift the box up high, humming the Circle of Life as I do.
I place the box on the table beside me and don’t touch it for the rest of the evening.