The Royal Fail

I ordered a new wig awhile ago (I have promised myself a wig a month, just so I don't start feeling shabby and horrid & thus pull more in a vaugue subconscious attempt to pull myself into non-existence). And I specified Royal Mail First Class Delivery. And I waited for the delivery. And, instead of the wig, I was delivered a card saying "sorry you were out" andasking me to collect the thing from the collection-office-place. When I was very much NOT out. When I was very much IN and waiting for the delivery. (My doorbell-buzzer-thing is AMAZINGLY loud - and I could not POSSIBLY have not heard it.) So, thought I, I wonder how it is packaged? Can they see what it is? Will they open it? Are they Queening around in it, these Post Office People? Will I turn up to collect the thing (and, indeed, to complain about its non-delivery) to a collection-office-place of sniggering trichophobes? OMG!!! So I stormed down to the collection-office-place (on the basis that crossness is much more enjoyable than social terror) and collected the thing (sensibly packaged wordlessly in non-see-through-plastic, thank God). So... I decide to have the thing discretely delivered ... and it isn't delivered at all. One would imagine that a delivery company might be able to deliver things - apparently not. See below for a picture of said wig (& friend who hopefully wouldn't mind my posting this picture of him, but isn't here to ask, so here goes):

Me looking FANTASTICALLY gawky. But nevermind.