Recorded Delivery

I’m sleepwalking my way through another shift. Slotting letters into pigeon holes. Second class. First class. Large letters. Bills. Catalogues. Final demands disguised as friendly reminders. The usual parade of adulthood misery, stamped and ready to ruin someone’s day. That’s when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Can you come with me, Amanda?” I turn. A woman is standing behind me. She’s dressed in the sort of power suit that makes you feel guilty before a single accusation has been made. Navy blazer. Sensible shoes. Glasses perched halfway down her nose. Clipboard tucked under one arm. Disciplinary action in human form. “Sure…” I say, already calculating how many letters I’m currently not sorting, and how much later I’ll now be finishing. She simply nods and starts walking. I follow. We head down a corridor I’ve never seen before. The further we walk, the quieter it becomes. The air grows colder too. Not chilly. Institutional cold. Like the building itself is withholding affection. Eventually she stops outside a plain grey door, opens it, and gestures inside. The room contains a desk. Two plastic chairs. And sod all else. No windows. No pictures. No kettle. No evidence that joy has ever entered the room. “This looks like an interrogation room,” I joke. The woman doesn’t laugh. Not even a twitch. “Take a seat.” Ah. One of those. I lower myself into the plastic chair. The woman sits opposite me, places her clipboard neatly on the desk, clears her throat, and says: “You do realise you’re currently on your final warning.” I blink. “Final warning?” “Correct.” “For what exactly?” The statement genuinely catches me off guard. I’ve never had a warning before. Unless we’re counting a forgotten parcel scan, or the woman who complained I bent her birthday card clearly labelled DO NOT BEND. I didn’t bend it. I rolled it. Hardly Britain’s Most Wanted. The woman takes a long breath. The sort of breath doctors take before delivering life-altering news. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” I shrug. “I haven’t got the faintest idea what we’re talking about.” “This may be difficult to watch.” For a brief moment, I wonder if I’ve killed somebody. Without another word, she opens a laptop sitting on the desk, taps a few buttons, then slowly turns the screen towards me. And Jesus fucking Christ. It’s Ring doorbell footage. Of me. Not one clip. Not ten clips. Every doorstep. Every tiny public collapse I’ve ever suffered in a Royal Mail uniform. Preserved forever. Like I’m the reluctant star of an unhinged nature documentary called Posties Under Pressure. The first clip starts playing. There I am outside somebody’s front door. Pacing. Waiting. Growing visibly more annoyed by the second. The customer is obviously home. Lights on. Television flickering. Car on the drive. Yet somehow incapable of answering a doorbell. Video Amanda sighs dramatically. Checks her watch. Then mutters: “Come on, you cunts.” The woman pauses the footage. Silence settles over the room. “Is ‘cunts’ a phrase we should be using in the workplace, Amanda?” I wince. “Well…” I point towards the frozen image. “They were blatantly home.” “That doesn’t answer the question.” “They were taking their sweet time.” “That still doesn’t answer the question.” I think for a moment. “No.” “Thank you.” She plays the next clip. Oh no. Not this bloody one. There I am lobbing a parcel through somebody’s open window. The package vanishes through the opening. A second later there’s a loud crack. Then screaming. The woman pauses the footage again. “The window was open,” I explain. “Yes.” “So technically delivered.” “No.” “I’d argue it was.” She glances down at her notes. “Mr Anderson suffered a high-impact head injury.” “Oh.” “The Royal Mail covered his medical expenses.” “Oh.” “He still has parcel-themed night terrors.” “Oh dear.” The clipboard receives another note. I suspect none of the notes are complimentary. The next clip begins. This one hurts. Because I recognise it all too well. I’m standing on a driveway. My PDA has frozen. Again. The battery is dying. Again. The signal has disappeared. Again. I watch myself slowly unravel. Muttering. Swearing. Stomping around in tight, furious circles. Jabbing at buttons. Then jabbing them harder. As though the device might suddenly remember its purpose through fear alone. My eyes start filling with tears. Then comes the moment. I launch the PDA at the ground. It bounces. I pick it up. Throw it again. Then I stamp on it repeatedly — a short, furious burst of pure, irrational violence against plastic. The woman pauses the footage. I stare at the desk. “Bad day.” She nods. “Clearly.” There are more clips. Far more. Me arguing with gates. Me crying behind wheelie bins. Me calling a postbox a prick and genuinely meaning it. It becomes less a disciplinary meeting and more a long, sad slideshow documenting the gradual emotional collapse of a woman doing her best with inadequate technology, impossible workloads, and only a rapidly diminishing supply of patience. Eventually the woman snaps the laptop shut. “I think we’ve seen enough.” I exhale with relief. Then she adds: “For one day.” I stare at her. “You mean there’s more?” “Amanda,” she says, removing her glasses, “we haven’t even scratched the surface.” A wave of shame washes over me. Because beneath all the swearing, the meltdowns, the increasingly creative parcel placements… I recognise the woman on the screen. Because she isn’t a stranger. She isn’t a character. She’s just me. Me on bad days. Me when I’m overwhelmed. Me when nobody’s supposed to be watching. I do try. I genuinely do. Most days I’m giving everything I’ve got. Yes, occasionally I call customers cunts. And yes, occasionally a parcel embarks on a journey of its own before reaching its final destination. But we’re human. We get tired. We get frustrated. Sometimes we need to let off steam before the next arsehole customer attacks. “So what happens now?” I ask quietly. The woman sighs. “Best behaviour, please.” Fantastic. No pressure then. Just the knowledge that every front door in Britain might secretly be compiling evidence against me. As I leave the office, I spot a familiar face. Laura. She’s sitting outside another interview room, looking like somebody has vacuumed out her soul and forgotten to put it back. “What are you doing here?” I laugh. She doesn’t. “I’m on my final warning.” “Same.” I lower my voice. “What did you do?” Laura stares at the floor. “Flashed my tits at a Ring Cam.” I blink. “What?” “I’m not proud of it.” “Why?” “It seemed funny at the time.” I consider asking further questions, then decide there are some doors in life that should remain firmly closed. “Fair enough,” I say, and continue walking. After work I’m invited to somebody’s leaving party. I haven’t got the faintest clue whose. Dream Amanda accepts invitations the way I deal with shitty customers: on instinct, and without any regard for consequences. The venue is a country pub. The sort of place where you feel unwelcome before you’ve even crossed the threshold. The moment I walk in, conversation falters. Heads turn. Locals peer over the rims of their pints. Their expressions collectively say: This is a local pub for local people. Turn around and nobody gets hurt. Despite this warm reception, everyone from work seems to be having a wonderful time. I squeeze my way to the bar and order a glass of Prosecco. That’s when I feel another tap on my shoulder. My stomach immediately drops. For one horrible second I think the disciplinary woman has followed me armed with additional evidence — possibly a highlights reel. Amanda Lyle: The Director’s Cut. But when I turn around— Everything stops. A mystery man stands before me. Dark curls. Blue eyes. Sun-kissed skin. The sort of man who looks like he was created from the collective imagination of bored and very horny housewives. Yet somehow he feels familiar. Like I’ve met him before. Or accidentally remembered him from another life. His eyes widen. “You are beautiful.” I laugh. The reflexive kind. The embarrassed kind. The surely you’ve mistaken me for somebody else kind. “What? Me?” “Yes, you.” Even his smile is annoyingly attractive. I feel a flutter in places I shouldn’t be feeling a flutter. Then guilt kicks the door in. “I’m married.” The words leave my mouth before my brain has approved them. He glances at my ring. “I noticed.” We stand there in silence. A perfectly good moment, instantly murdered by my own paranoia. Then he says: “I’ve been enjoying your videos online.” I frown. “What videos?” He looks confused. “Recorded Delivery.” I shake my head. “I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.” He laughs nervously and pulls out his phone. Then turns the screen towards me. And holy shit. It’s me. Hundreds of videos. Millions of views. Every Ring camera clip. Every meltdown. Every rant. Every breakdown. Every doorstep disaster. Edited, packaged, and uploaded like a greatest hits album I never agreed to release. The account has over a million followers. Comments. Memes. Reaction videos. A whole audience built out of moments I’d hoped nobody else remembered. There are T-shirts. Actual T-shirts. One reads: RECORDED DELIVERY Beneath it, in smaller letters: COME ON YOU CUNTS I feel the blood drain from my face. “But…” Nothing else comes out. A single syllable of protest from someone who’s just realised she’s already been archived. The room begins to spin. The recognition. The warnings. The stares. Everything clicks into place in the worst possible order. Suddenly it all makes sense. Everyone here knows me. Not Amanda. Not really. The version of me that survives online instead. The angry postie. The Ring Cam woman. The version of me assembled entirely from my worst afternoons. I look up. Above the bar hangs a banner. I’d somehow missed it before. It reads: CONGRATULATIONS ON 1 MILLION SUBSCRIBERS The leaving party isn’t for somebody else. It’s for me. And that’s when I realise something worse than embarrassment. This isn’t a celebration. It’s a screening. Every single person in the pub is staring. Not at me. At the dozens of Ring cameras mounted around the walls. All pointing in my direction. Recording. Watching. Ready for Episode 1,000,001. And somewhere behind me, I hear the corporate woman’s voice calmly announce: “Don’t worry, Amanda. People always prefer the breakdowns.”