Courier's Complaint

I was sent to Mister and Mississauga today to a certain high tech data company to pick up some stuff and deliver it to some other high tech company in Gwulph. This place, just off the 401, was an immense warehouse with conveyors twisting like serpents through its pristine innards. A warehouse full of computers and peripherals.

To get in, I had to pass through a security gate, give the name of my company, my name, the address of my license plate...and assure the invisible security guard inside the intercom that I did indeed have a "pickup number".

And then once in the warehouse, I was obliged to display my driver's licence, from which the nice shipping lady extracted my driver's licence number. (After which she chastised me for coming to the Shipping door instead of the Customer Pickup door....)

All this for two pieces of computerish device.

Stuff.

Yeah, yeah, big warehouse. Expensive equipment.

Still, nothing but stuff.

I can only say I am continually amazed at people's inflated opinions of their business. Including myself sometimes.

But we're in a world where we accept egregious invasions of our privacy and dignity without question.

Addendum to Courier's Complaint:
This being scolded for going to the wrong door reminds me of another incident from a couple of weeks ago. A delivery to an auto body shop, of all things. I walked in the front door and the girl told me no deliveries there, I had to go back outside, around to the next door, which was the delivery door.

OK, I went. Who appears at the delivery counter? The same girl. (And, by the way, this was another place where I had to fill out a form with my company name, and sign it....to make a delivery...at a body shop for heaven's sake! I've been there a couple times since. I'm using pseudonyms now...Lenin, Bakunin...next will be Plekhanov, and then Trotsky. I want to see if anyone will notice. Or understand.)

And this reminds me of an incident many years ago in Montreal, when Steve went in to a hotel to inquire about a room or two for us for the night. He went up to the desk and asked how much, and the girl told him he was at the desk for French speakers and must go to the desk (over there) for English.

OK, he went. Who appeared at the desk to serve him? You guessed it...the girl from the auto body shop!