I’m working from home and taking five minutes out to idly gawp out of my front window when I hear the letter box. Seconds later, postie’s outside my window and shouts “I’ve left you parcel at number (nextdoor-but-two) ‘cos I didn’t know if you were in”.
“Great,” I think, “those will be the coils I need to fix Mrs Higgo’s car”. So I put my shoes on and step outside to see the fella from nextdoor-but-two disappearing in a cloud of Vauxhall smoke.
Next time, you fat, ugly, idle twonk, why don’t you knock on the door to find out if I’m in rather than using your (obviously failing) telepathic powers as you waddle up the street?