Door-to-door begging now?

I worked at home today for the first time since returning from leave. I needed some quiet time to make progress on critical technical documents the rest of the project is waiting for.

Quiet time did I say?

I started late on account of having to stop by the local sorting office to pick up a recorded delivery package that they failed to deliver yesterday. Remind me to blog sometime on how archaic postal practices assume there'll be a "housewife" or equivalent at home every day just on the off-chance postie will require a signature. Anyway, after a twenty-minute search of the entire sorting office the jobsworth there declared it lost, and informed me I'd have to call back after my postman returned from his round and told them where he'd hidden it.

I wasn't best pleased about this, since I assumed the letter was in fact my tickets for the forthcoming Genesis concert (*squeeeeeeeee!!!!!!*), but I didn't create a scene having learned from bitter experience that this is more likely to *reduce* my chances of getting hold of my letter than *enhance* them.

An hour after I arrived home, my concentration was interrupted by the doorbell. Another parcel. Delivered by courier, rather than postie, so I never had chance to ask him where he'd hidden my Genesis tickets.

After another hour the phone rang. It was the sorting office to tell me postie had revealed his hiding place and would I like to come back and collect my letter. Had it been anything else I would have left it until the end of the day when I'd be going out anyway to pick Nikki up from work. But Genesis fans will recognise my reluctance to leave those tickets anywhere but in my own sweaty hands. I drove round there immediately (and it was, indeed, the tickets).

On my return home I settled down once again in front of my embryonic technical document. What seemed like only minutes later, but was in fact only minutes later, the doorbell rang again. "What now?!?!" I expostulated to myself (and if you've never tried self-expostulation, believe me it can be a cathartic experience) and set of once again to the front door.

There, on the step, stood a dark skinned and colourfully beswathed woman, one hand resting on the handle of a buggy in which slept a very small child. "Spare small change for baby?" she enquired in broken English, "spare change?"

So it's door-to-door begging now, is it? Time was when the only doorstepper you had to hide from was the Betterwear man. Now it's immigrants with babies in tow, hoping to melt your heart with their immediate and personal need. Not in the street, where you can walk around them. Not on the tube, where you can bury your head in your novel or your Metro. No. Right here, on your doorstep. Like Jehovah's Witnesses on crack. I felt violated. Belatedly, I remembered to close my mouth, only to have to open it again to mumble "no, thank you," rather feebly before closing the door.

So much for quiet time.