SEVENTH.

Okay. Picture-free post, but I have to do it.

I am fed up with the Royal Mail. Every time I go to the post office on Gloucester Road, I leave in a terrible mood, which is unfortunate because I love sending post cards and letters to my friends and family at home. The last two days have been no exception to this seemingly unconditional rule.

I needed to send a package. Now, I was expecting it to cost me a fair amount, seeing as it was international and whatnot. Let it be known that I knew this going into the whole ordeal, and that's not the purpose of this whine-fest. I am used to finding free flat-rate boxes when I walk into any post office, usually somewhat varied in size. Having never encountered flat rate boxes in the, oh, ten or so times I have been in the post office, I assumed that I was to either buy a box of appropriate size from behind the stationary counter or have the man at the postage counter assist me with proper packaging. A logical assumption, I dub thee.

On Monday afternoon, I get in line. It's about a half-hour wait time, which I am less than thrilled about, but given the paramount nature of said package, I am willing to submit. Out of the corner of my eye, hidden beneath neatly organized rows of high lighters and mechanical pencils and wedged haphazardly into a corner shelf, I spy what appears to be a jumble of cardboard. "Ah," I say to myself, "boxes!" I politely ask the girl behind me in line to hold my spot and canter over joyously to procure a much needed box.

This is where we run into problem #1: The sizes between the smallest and second smallest boxes is quite significant. The smallest is only slightly smaller than the size of my intended gift--about height and width of a CD case, and about an inch to an inch and a half deep. Well, shoot. I move on to the next box.

UHM. This guy is about 14x8x5. Much larger than I need, but there is no secondary option. Frustrated, I take this gigantic box back to the line and proceed to assemble it in the manner it requires, all the while hoping they have some sort of packaging tape and/or paper that I can use at the desk.

I wait in this atrocious line for about 20 minutes, sweating like an idiot because I'm upset and annoyed with the whole process thus far, when I see it: a notice sign about the size of a half-sheet of paper that says something to the effect of "Please pay for all boxes and envelopes before proceeding to the postage counter."

Now, I am already running late for my 3 o'clock class, so I wait, oh, five more seconds before I say "Screw it!" and go pay £1.50 for my unnecessarily and stupidly large box and then out of the post office with it, contents inside rattling. I get back to my room and cram the entire box with sheets of paper from orientation week and bank on finding some packing tape to borrow from someone, since I'll probably be sending a grand total of two packages the entire time I'm here. I do not need an entire roll of masking tape.

I figured I could get it from the mail room the next day. Right? Right. Wrong. They didn't even have masking tape. What the heck kind of mail room doesn't have basic office supplies?!

Fast-forward to today: Obviously, I end up having to pay for masking tape, too. Awesome. I'm taping this poor excuse for a surprise present together in line, grunting the whole time. When I get to the counter, I have to declare what is inside the package, which I understand but is frustrating nonetheless because it's a gift and I didn't want the recipient to know what he was getting before he, you know, opened it.

Ugh. In summary, Royal Mail might as well tell everybody to drop the soap because that's really how bad they get you every single time. Postage, box, and tape, all for a measly 200 grams of Valentine's Day fun.

Fight the power, people.