What the hell is the problem with finding our house?

Since buying and moving into our new property in 2017, we have had issues with takeaway delivery drivers finding where we live.

It seems like more often than not, while waiting for a pizza or curry, one of our mobile phones will start to ring, with a number we don’t recognise.

“Here we go again”, Claire and I will say to each other, before one of us – normally my dear wife – answers the phone; only to be greeted by the all too common sound of a man or woman, asking where we live.

The instructions provided at the time of placing the order are relayed to the driver – “Past the first set of garages on your right and up a small path. The house has a ramp outside.”

Sometimes this helps the delivery person and their car/motorcycle/bike, sometimes it does not help. When the latter happens, poor Claire has to venture outside, wearing her PJs and slippers. She then has the challenge of pacing the streets, trying to find the wayward courier. Just to add to the difficulty, these delivery drivers apparently use their own forms of transport – their unmarked vehicles – making the takeaway hunt an even greater challenge.

Claire and I become very peeved by this regular debacle. Our house isn’t hard to find. It is, in fact, on Google Maps. Search for us, and you’ll see the red cursor is placed directly above the roof of our house.

Anyone would think we lived at Area 51…

Mercifully, it has only been takeaway deliveries that have caused us grief. That was until today…

Every week we have a supermarket shop delivered. If you’ve been reading this blog for a number of years, you’ll recall my many encounters with Tesco. We’re still using them for our groceries, as well as Morrisons and when we’re feeling posh, have even been known to shop at Ocado.

I am happy to report that the people tasked with delivering our ‘big shop’, do not have a problem finding Château de Kitson – even those from Tesco!

Clearly supermarket delivery drivers carry a SatNav and not just an A-Z map from 1986, like Deliveroo employees.

For some strange, but worrying reason, this week’s delivery driver must have forgot to charge his TomTom Go, as a call on Claire’s mobile gave us both a dreaded case of deja vu.

It was the Morrisons driver…

He was parked around the corner from our house, but could not proceed any further. Evidently he was unable to pick his way through the guillied landscape, dense undergrowth and hidden temples, which lead up to our three bedroomed, semi-detached mansion.

Claire talked the driver through the near-impossible path involved in finding our house – “Past the first set of garages on your right, blah blah blah…”

She rightly did not go outside to look for the driver. Going out in your nightwear during the evening is one thing, doing the same at midday is just plain weird. Yes, Claire does wear pyjamas in the day, as do I. There is nothing wrong with that – we are on annual leave – so stop the Wayne and Waynetta Slob jokes.

The Morrisons driver turned up at our front door sometime later. He sounded pissed off and Claire told me that he looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

After dumping the shopping at our front door, he slumped back to his van, and drove off to his next delivery. Apparently the next destination is a bungalow – how on earth will he find that?