Earlier, I’d a unimportant riddle to resolve surrounding delivery of the latest book I’ve self-published. This hardback containing literary excerpts first penned as content for my website writesaidfred.org. This a 38th tome I’ve had printed into book format since autumn 2016.
My minuscule enigma being whether to abandon venturing out to my usual cafe domaine d’ecriture to wait for my art’s courier delivery; instead penning Friday’s narrative at chez Strachan. Or should I wander out to my preferred environment for chronicling, delegating the responsibility of signing for this newly printed literary journal to my mother.
Despite mater hurtling towards her 80th birthday, a time in the ageing process manifesting an onset of confusion, diminishing motor abilities and penchant for avoiding ownership, I deemed this a task well within her skillset…… Or so I thought!
I’d been informed by the courier service, via text, that their driver would deliver my parcel containing this book between 2.45pm-3.45pm today.
Coincidentally, although not linked, at 2.45pm my sister Helen, visiting to lunch with mum and me, departed the family abode for her scheduled weekend trip to Northumberland.
Seeing her car reversing from the four house cul-de-sac, which includes chez Strachan amongst it’s residences, my indecisiveness finally abated and I took the decision to place my trust in mum’s door answering abilities.
Consequentially, a few minutes after Helen’d made the same manoeuvre, I undertook the same reverse out of our petite cul-de-sac; my destination the aforementioned cafe domaine d’ecriture.
I left our street certain mum’d answer the door. After all, she knew I’d a package delivery due and ordinarily always answers the front door. Yours truly confident I’d left the task in safe hands.
In fact, as a DPD courier passed me in the opposite direction as I drive up Moor Knoll Lane towards the tired looking white rendering outside of The Bedford pub, not once did I think of turning around to drive the few hundred yards home to sign for the book myself.
Venturing along Bradford Road and down Dewsbury Road I’d a warm feeling knowing when I return home post-blog write my 38th book will be laid on the kitchen table, wrapped securely in its cardboard packaging. This light brown sheath, would be aesthetically unappealing, but the anticipation of holding its contents excited me like a lovestruck suitor.
Footnote – I’m aware the making comparisons between the inaugural sight of a new printed book of mine and a sexual conquest is over-egging the excitement levels somewhat. However, the fulfilment experienced when witnessing the numerous tomes containing over a million of my words and 1,700 narratives, penned since 2005, isn’t far from that plateau of enjoyment.
Consequently I’d notions of, on seeing the cardboard packaging, wantonly ripping it apart to experience the wonderful redolence of a freshly printed hardback. Further savouring the appealing aroma resultant from flicking through the pages which manifested from the same capricious and creatively fertile mind as the one bringing you this essay.
Sadly, my faith in mater was misplaced….. On arrival at the coffee house at the south Leeds shopping centre, where I habitually undertake my art, I was greeted by the following text from the courier company who’d not had a response when knocking on my mum’s front door at 2.50pm:-
“Sorry we missed you, your driver James won’t be back today. We’ll be back 10 Feb, or view your options here ………….. “
