“Your front door is your home’s biggest fashion accessory... And my first point of reference when tryna’ guess how much money you have.”
18.03.24
Amazon delivery driver.
My time on the force was so interestingly and painfully insightful. I started to build a profound relationship with front doors. Have you ever thought about how big your letter box is? I had completely forgotten that these things have a function.
There’s something about a yellow front door without a glazing panel that just does it for me. The pinks were nice, orange and yellows were my favourite.
An estate door was repetitive. But, good repetitive. I read it as a collection of homes, as I assume intended. Community is always nice. But it was the heavy steel gates, broken letter boxes and the fading tan from a door number, that brought me back to my favourite topic. Capitalism.
Your front door is your home's biggest fashion accessory, and my first point of reference when tryna’ guess how much money you have. It was fun predicting what kind of face was behind the door. Though, time pressures meant in most cases I was on to the next by the time the door crept open.
The power dynamic is so interesting. A silent war. Both parties, so desperate to meet.
20 seconds too late and there’s a soggy cardboard box with a dent in it. Not behind your bin like I said it was… And that’s because your leisurely stroll to the door means I have 20 seconds less time to deliver the rest of my parcels.
The demand for drivers to deliver 230 parcels in a day, meant we were constantly at war with the clock and ourselves. Just for a net gain of £100. Context reduces the number further but I’ll save that story for another day.
Is there anything scarier today than missing your delivery?
Before my exit I would throw a look back towards the door to check if the parcel was picked up off of the front porch. I would look as far as my vision could reach.
*Correction*
I would throw a look back towards the porch to check if a beige blur disappeared from in-front of the door.
The people that would take a parcel and not say ‘thanks’. Heathens.
Selfish, entitled, snobby. I usually would internalise these types of interactions long enough for it to be reversed by the friendliest of Londoners. Stumbling over their thank you’s as they try to balance the 6 small boxes I just handed over, step backwards and close the door, whilst still trying to keep eye contact and smile. What an episode for the anxious!
The worst kind were those that say nothing and just take. Barbaric. Miserable.
(I preface this by saying… I’m aware that I have no idea of what really happens behind a front door. Context is always important.)
But… Not when I’m delivering your fucking parcel! I hate this job and I still smile. Find some internal strength please, and pull a thank you out of the back of your neck.
Short thrills include peaking between the customer’s head and the door frame, to a world beyond. Sometimes it was white walls and a quickly onrushing dog, other times Aesop hand cream and her flatmate Poppy. More often than not, it was a mountain of dirty shoes on an exhausted shoe rack.
I’d usually take a step back. Doors open with a waft of hot air that usually came with a big smell. We are in the winter months, so the cooked smell of unfamiliar food or 14-hour-old breath were potent and destructive. I can drop a box on the door and say thank you from the front gate or further down the deck.
Now, I watch a delivery driver rush off into the distance and hop into his van like it’s a fighter jet from my door as if I’m in some sort of rom-com. I smile and wave off our brave soldiers as they drive off into a not so distant 20 meters further down the road to relive the fight again. I definitely don’t do that, But it would make a good skit.
Oh yeah! I didn’t realise how late I was to the party. Everybody has a ‘Ring’ bell. Is this a homeowner thing? They’re so dull and blocky. They ruin a good outfit.
An old-fashioned bell or buzzer is so much more satisfying. It feels functional. I know they hear when I call.
I also thought door knockers was an old-school a thing. Yeah, they still work.
Apparently, my visits are just as friendly as the police's. A moody resident makes sense now.
I got the job by the way.