55 Basinghall Street.
You lock your bike up, sign in with the security guard (“thanks sweetie!”), and take the goods lift two floors down to the postroom. So far, so normal.
But the postroom is deserted, and a sign advises you to “call 07*** ******, and someone will be along shortly”.
So you get your mobile out – no signal. Bah.
So you wait. Ten minutes pass.
You take the lift back to the loading bay. This is complicated by the eccentric numeration of the building’s floors.
No ground floor. The first time I came here it took me three tries to get back to street level.
You explain to the security guard that the postroom is deserted. He refuses to sign for the package, and tells you to go back down to the basement and wait in the postroom. You explain that this this package contains urgent documents (well, you never know – it might), and that you have other things to do, and can’t afford to stand around indefinitely waiting for a postroom guy who might or might not show up.
He refuses to sign for the package and tells you to go back down to the basement and wait in the postroom.
The argument repeats itself.
Eventually he gets bored and calls his superior, who isn’t authorized to sign for the package either, but finally gives in and sends you up to the main reception on the seventh floor, with an “on your own head be it” sucking of his teeth.
And a perfectly nice receptionist signs for the package with no quibbles at all, and you wonder why you couldn’t just have gone straight there in the first place.
In fact, in future I think I will.