notes on waiting in the parcel collection queue on a saturday afternoon
I am standing in a queue at the post office depot on a bright cloudless Saturday afternoon in mid-January. It’s 12.24 I got here at 12.16. The queue stretches out of the door and around the corner. I hate every single person in front of me and pity every person behind me (but a vague abstract pity, a there-but-for-the-grace-of-god-go-I kind of pity), I regret not having brought the book I am reading. I have a new library book in my bag but do not want to start it when I know I have three other books at home half-finished. Every so often someone emerges triumphant with an oversized parcel or one covered in stamps and charges. I am annoyed at having to waste my Saturday this way when I have other things to be doing, but then I suppose so does everyone else. The queue has only grown in length since I’ve stood here. There is one person working in the office and so the queue crawls along. Every time a bus passes by there is a chill because it blocks out the sun.
At one point an older lady passes by, bright red hair and lipstick to match, a shopping trolling trailing behind her. She speaks in a strong Eastern European accent:
“You are waiting for money?” she asks the queue, tilting her chin towards the long line of people.
“No, a parcel” One of us answers, it doesn't matter who, we are all the queue now.
“A person!?”
“A parcel. It’s the post office,” the queue says.
“Ohh...” she looks as if she will say more but at that moment her bus pulls up throwing everyone into the cold again and she hurries off to catch it.
We, the queue, go back to waiting. The excitement has passed.
By now I am around the corner which is worse because the wind blows straight up the street with little protection. The man in front of me with his big round headphones has left his bike on the rack to be watched over by the queue. It is all our bicycle's now. Every so often a postman emerges, one eating a banana, another carrying his large red postbag. All look at the queue with a wry smile as if to say, “Well if you will be out when we come round to deliver this is what happens”. Usually they come to our homes and now we have come to theirs on our day off to humbly collect what is not yet ours but what does not belong to the post office either. At this point my main goal is to cross the threshold to the inside foyer. At least there I will be protected from the wind. I’m wearing only thin leggings, a jumper, a gilet and scarf. Good choices for running around doing errands on a bright winter day, not so good for waiting in a cold queue. My fingers and backs of my thighs are turning numb in a not-unpleasant but not wholly welcome way.
I’m only collecting a five-pound tray that I ordered last week so I could do some paper marbling which I am currently obsessed with — I don't know how long my obsession will last, but for now, I am ordering five-pound trays in haste. I’m now ten or so people from the front and four or five people from the foyer and warmth.
A man walks by holding his young daughter’s hand. “See that big group of people,” he says looking in my direction. My face doesn’t change but I turn it away from him so that he knows we, the queue, do not think well of him for saying it out loud. We can all see the big queue, especially those of us on the inside of the queue, and so do not need it pointing out to us. It is impolite.
Now I am nearer to the door it’s less windy but not so sunny. A couple has just left laughing and cradling a box of beer. Much too large for their postbox, what were they thinking? A hyperactive child in a blue hat and glasses jumps around the queue, laughing maniacally at the post boxes and us. He darts inside and his parents don’t stop him. No bother. Oh no, I spoke too soon, he has been flushed out by the hood of his coat and wrestled back into place. I'm close enough now to lean on the door jam. The little boy is called Nicky. His Mum says it over and over while he screams. I’m inside finally! It does not feel triumphant only inevitable. A hipster couple grab their parcel and go.
It’s probably time to get out my ID and my card. I’m maybe five people away. Everything inside is white or black with red Royal Mail highlights. A woman in Ugg boots and a brown furry coat is next, she hands over the slip and her ID, the postwoman dashes off, Ugg boots woman takes out her phone while she waits and moves over to the second higher counter to the side. A scan, a beep-boop of the parcel and over the counter it goes. The woman says thank you, stuffs the parcel in her bag and leaves. This repeats itself several times over until I am the head of the queue. It feels like a big responsibility. The person at the counter goes through the routine: the slip, the wait, the return, the beep-boop, the stuffing of the parcel and escape. I’m next.
I wait. I am waiting too long? Oh no what if my parcel is not there!? I have waited over 30 minutes but, yes, here she is with my strange too wide parcel. I grab it and go. Outside I take out the five-pound tray from its flimsy packaging and shove it into the nearby recycling bin. I leave, putting the tray into my tote bag, while the queue, the line of strangers — who once was I and I, them — stare at me in jealousy and repulsion as if to say, you queued for over half an hour on a precious sunny Saturday afternoon for that slim piece of white plastic?
But I don’t care I’m free.
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