When you work in an office, and get products delivered, there’s usually a basement or delivery area where they’re stored. However, when you work at home, your office and home fulfill that need.
At various times, my house has been filled with vacuum cleaners (at one point, there were 24: under the dining table, crammed Tetris-style into my office, in my loft, up my staircase, and piled on top of my car in the garage), a variety of small appliances, and sometimes homewares, such as mirrors.
Many of these products arrive by courier, and so frequently that I’ve got to know several of the people who deliver to my door.
There’s Abbie, a ruthlessly efficient lady who has her electronic pad strapped to her wrist, and is always sporting a headset. And Salman, who, without fail, asks after my husband when I answer the door (“How is husband? OK? Good.”). I secretly think he prefers chatting to him over me. There’s also our regular postie, Neil, who comes with smaller items, piled up precariously, wedding cake-style, and secured by a couple of quivering rubber bands.
And then there’s Godfrey. When my husband started working from home, he mistakenly believed that his name was David (his excuse was that it was ‘something biblical’), yet it was ages before Godfrey corrected him. Recently, my husband gave Godfrey a bottle of his home-brew to try. He still waves at us from his van if he sees us out and about, so it can’t have been too bad.
Along with my neighbours, these are the people that make the reviews happen – they come and wave at me in the garden if I haven’t heard the doorbell, are happy to leave parcels for me somewhere if I’m not at home, and sometimes even tell me when they’re going on holiday so I know to expect someone else in their place.
Most recently, they’ve brought me kettle and toaster sets, and health grills, which I’m just finishing testing.
And then they will come and take lots of the boxes away. I’m really looking forward to seeing my stairs again.