Daucas Carotus Subsp. Satisvas Part 3

That evening I log onto Facebook to post my fantastic gardening tip onto the village Facebook group. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that my neighbour has already posted a picture of me using the turkey baster.  I was right, she was impressed with my ingenious idea.  Her post is extremely popular with lots of likes and smiley laughing faces. It feels good to know that I have made so many people happy. I leave a comment thanking her for sharing my idea with the village and my phone pings all evening as people acknowledge my comment. Although I am somewhat baffled by some of the replies, particularly the ones about alternative uses for the baster, I have never felt so admired!

I sleep badly. What time do the birds wake up? I hear their first calls before it's even light, so I haul myself out of bed, dress and hurry out into the garden.  As I round the corner as a flurry of wings greets me. The net curtains are still in place, but I can see evidence of where they have been scratching around in the exposed soil. Bloody birds!

My emails confirm that my order has been despatched and is at the depot. How long will it take for an order to get from depot to my house? Too long. The morning passes in a monotonous round of bird scaring and email checking. The parcel finally left the depot at 7.36am, and it's on its way. I regularly check the app to track the package, but there are no updates. Surely it can't take this long to deliver a few windmills.  Then my phone pings. "Your order is 8 stops away". Joy! Now I take up a position on my stairs to lie in wait for the delivery person, every second counts. The minutes tick by so I run out into the garden again to scare the birds and then back to my lookout. An hour later and they still haven't arrived. According to the map they have been sat outside the house of that very pretty lady Miss Carmichael for at least 45 minutes. What on earth are they doing there?

I run back out into the garden again. Just as I reach the raised bed, arms waving, I hear a squeal of tyres, a blast of loud music, then a couple of seconds later a door slams and an engine revs as car spins in the cul-de-sac and races back down the road.  Surely that couldn't have been Amazon. They didn't ring the doorbell, and they always ring the doorbell if they have a large package that won't fit through the letterbox. My phone pings with a message, "Your parcel has been delivered". Surely not.

I open my Nest App and watch the video of a man rushing to the house with a small package that he pushes through the letterbox. There must be some mistake. They must have delivered me the wrong parcel.

Back in the house, I put on my mask and a pair of surgical gloves. I gingerly extract the parcel from the letterbox, taking care not to shake any virus particles into the air. It is from Amazon, and it is addressed to me. I carefully place the parcel into the quarantine area, remove my gloves, throw them into the bin, remove my mask, put it into the washing machine, and thoroughly wash my hands and arms. I can't wait 72 hours for this parcel to complete its quarantine period. I need to know what it is. I need a plan.

Half an hour later I'm stood on my back lawn wearing one of Joe's old balaclavas. Over that, I have a surgical face mask and to protect my eyes some goggles that I used to use with a sunlamp. I'm also sporting an old red jumpsuit, my wellingtons and a pair of surgical gloves, with my yellow washing up gloves over the top of them.  I'm pretty convinced that the virus can't get to me plus I'm outside, which is another positive point.  I take a deep breath and hold it, pick up the scissors and very gently cut open the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside there is a plastic packet containing 50 pink plastics straws, some white plastic widgets and a wodge of strange geometrically shaped metallic paper, and a leaflet 'How to Build Your Garden Windmills'. More worryingly in prominent letters at the bottom of the leaflet are the words 'Made in China'. I scream, drop the package and run inside as the birds fly up from the raised bed.

I stare out of the window, imagining the virus particles swirling around my garden. How long will it take for them to blow away or settle? Should I warn the neighbours? How could Amazon be so irresponsible? There should have been a warning on the envelope. This calls for decisive action. I root around under the sink, find what I am looking for, take a deep breath and run outside. On the lawn, I tip the bottle of bleach over the package and rush back inside before my breath runs out.

That night, I take to Facebook again to warn the village about the possible dangers of Amazon packages. On the site is a post with a photograph of me in my protective gear. My neighbour has written underneath about the importance of wearing the right clothing for unwrapping an Amazon parcel. She is already one step ahead of me. That's saved me a job, so post a comment thanking her. I get lots of LOL comments.  According to Google, this means 'Laughing out loud'. I really don't think the virus is a laughing matter, but I know that some people believe it to be a hoax.

 

 Jaqui

Image by hello-i-m-nik-heh