In Praise of People we Pay Good Money to Break Things For Us

The latest in a long line of parcels that arrived as a shovelful of bits in a box that was once square-ish and had metamorphosed into some distant cousin of the arthropod species,  convinced me that sending anything to climates more distant than next door is seriously questionable. And if you got through that sentence without retching, you are made of stern stuff, and I doff my hat.

I would have to say, in the interests of fair appraisal, that my curiosity in any place more distant than arm’s length, on the Richter Scale of zero to ten, is about minus five hundred and seventy three. And you can multiply that by a lot if it’s raining.

Even taking this into consideration, I have toyed with the idea of stowing away in one of my parcels booked in for shipping (pick your own company; in my experience their records of losing/ breaking/ delivering to people I’ve never heard of, are remarkably similar), with my trusty machete and Heckler and Koch automatic. Unfortunately, I would have to be built of sheet stainless steel to survive the journey. So I shelved that plan.

So what is the most effective packing for a piece of valve equipment? Bearing in mind that there are few materials (in this Universe at any rate) that will stand being run over by a fork truck, this gets to be a problem that Einstein might balk at. So I phoned him.

“Is your name Einstein?” I asked.

“Yes” said Einstein.

“Would that be Albert Einstein?” I asked.

“It’s actually Einstein Trimblestrop; actually” said Einstein.

“I’m sure you’ll do” I said hopefully. “How would you pack a parcel to be delivered by courier to Spain? Or anywhere, really.” I asked.

“I wouldn’t send it at all” said Einstein. He thought a bit. “I did send a Victorian cast iron commode to Venezuela once. They said it looked like a toilet when it got there. I suppose that was near enough.”

“How did you pack it, Mr. Einstein?”

“I dropped it on the courier’s foot and he packed it in his plaster of Paris splint.”

So that’s solved that one. I’m now looking for my brand new packet of Macaroons shipped from Venezuela.  Easily mistaken for a box of nails when shaken.

Reconstituting smashed Venezuelan macaroons is an extended project, I can tell you. Almost as bad as repairing a new Studiomaster Powerhouse.

Now, where’s my brand new packet of tea from Venezuela………?

 

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