Fairly atavic, or this fire in my belly

1. -I can reschedule the delivery for tomorrow, which means you’ll have to be at home for it.
- Yes m’am. Whatever you say, I’m at your mercy, Ye Parcelforce Power. I bet she has hair bleached yellow.
- So your parcel could be delivered anytime between 7am and 7pm, she says gleefully.
- Oh aye, I nod down the phone. I don’t want to risk her wrath and see the whole thing collaspse. Still. I bet she has her hair scrapped into a bun with that little bit hanging on her greasy face. And gold hoop earrings.
- So you have to be at home all day, she adds. This time it’s bordering on the malicious, chavgirl.
- I’ll make sure I set my alarm in plenty of time and then I’ll wait behind my net curtains for your messiah-like delivery man, I don’t say but I really wish I had because it would have been far cooler than just u-huh-ing down the phone, then thanking her politely for being patronised. So today, I’m stuck at home fuming again.

2. See, people of blogland, yesterday it wasn’t only the gods of parcel deliveries that were against me. Trains were too. As a result of South West trains’ extreme and untimely deviousness late last night, I took my special lady friend to places she’d never been before, and I don’t mean metaphorically. Effingham?? It doesn’t even exist. Finally we managed to get to my home and it was so late that all we had time for before falling asleep was a cuddle.. Trains, and chocolate vending machines which ate my last 20 pence. All day I mentally composed wrathful, vitriolic letters of complaints to the Higher Powers, and imagined replies of abject, crawling apologies that I could wave at people and frame. As well as free travelcards and endless chocolate bars.

3. See, most normal families know those times (Christmas, Birthdays, First Boyfriend’s visit) when you bust out the photo album and reminisce. In my family, we do most things differently. Instead, my mother keeps a thick folder of complaints letters that she has sent over the years. It goes back to 1969, année érotique for some, but to my mother the year she discovered the superior pleasure she could take in unleashing her rage at the same Higher Powers that pissed me off all of yesterday. At Christmas, we bust out the Bitching Folder and we giggle. My favourite letter is perhaps the June 1978 one, great year for gold lamé platform shoes with tiny straps. Straps that broke with the first step out of the shop; bum on floor and bruises, argument, scandal, perfectly delightful letter, 2 free pairs of shoes.
Result.
There are scores of other letters all legitimate, to gas people, mail order companies, wine sellers, supermarkets, plane companies. Over the years we got lots of free coupons, but she has never managed to get free flights.
Yet.

4. I don’t really know what my point is today; except that if the Pratcelforce powers don’t turn up with my stuff before 7.01, I have a letter coming. It’s brewing already. I have about a dozen really cool adjectives ready.
Blame it on atavism. J thinks it’s pointless and ‘such a Y thing to do’. I don't care, it’s cathartic.
And, sometimes, it gets results.