If you don’t do it excellently, don’t do it at all. Because if it’s not excellent, it won’t be profitable or fun, and if you’re not in business for fun or profit, what the hell are you doing there? – Robert Townsend.
Dr. Bill was an expert in Computational Fluid Dynamics. He could pretty much live where he wanted and take on whatever contract work that took his fancy. So that’s what he did.
Trouble is, the place he chose to live was in The Shires. Had it actually been the City itself – there wouldn’t have been a problem. But it was one of the outlying Camps. And so there was.
You see, the computer files that his work colleagues wanted to send him were – as you can imagine – rather large. And because the Broadband Revolution hadn’t hit the hamlet where Bill lived, the only way to send them to him was on a CD via Registered Overnight Delivery. So that’s what his associates in the home office did.
Unfortunately, the Tuesday that the files ‘arrived’, Bill was working on another job from eight until twelve in the City itself. And so it wasn’t until he arrived home at one that he found the little note under his door indicating that the postman had attempted to deliver a package in the morning and, having failed to receive a signature for it, taken it back to a local village Post Office.
Bill set off in his car the moment that he got the note. But to his dismay, he found that the little white cottage that served as the village Post Office was only open between nine and twelve in the morning, Monday through Friday. Dr. Bill was a tad troubled. He needed to work on those files.
Being a resourceful sort of chap, Dr. Bill decided that he would swing around the left of the Post Office that afternoon to see if he might find someone to open up the shop to give him the package his colleagues had paid so dearly to have delivered.
But the lady who opened the door simply said that, although she lived there, she did not work there. She had no access to the Post Office at all. And she proffered no advice as to what path Bill might take to retrieve his package.
But did Bill give up? Hell, no! You don’t get a PhD in CFD for giving up. So off he went to town five miles down the road to see if they could help. But that was no good either. Once he got there, the Postmaster told him that, since he was in a completely different county, they had no jurisdiction whatsoever over the little village Post Office in The Shires.
But did Bill give up? Hell no. You don’t… (Yes, I think we get the picture – Ed.). Before he returned home, he swung his car back through the village again hoping to find who the Postmaster might be.
Fortunately, once there, he spotted a lady delivering newspapers. So he stopped to ask her where the folks lived who ran the Post Office. She was very helpful. She told Bill that the Postmistress lived in the right hand side of the little white cottage that was the Post Office itself.
Bill was elated. Finally, he would get his CDs. But would he? No. I’m sorry to say, dear reader, that he didn’t.
Bill’s hopes were dashed when, after walking around the right side of the Post Office, he looked in the window of the house only to see the same woman that he had spoken to not hours before, sitting unmoving, face down at her kitchen table surrounding by two rather angry looking children who simply stared at Bill mouthing the words ‘we’re closed’.