Do you remember my Evri delivery guy I posted about a while back?

Who has curated a lovely collection of photos of me in various states of startled shock because he insists on taking a flash photo every single time he delivers a parcel (while talking to his mate on the phone)?

I’ve started throwing my arm round my partially open front door like a cat trying to get into a bathroom to foil him.

Now he just gets photos of my grasping pyjama-ed arm while I squash my face and body against the back of the door so he can’t add to his ridiculous album of "startled me" pics.

I’m guessing this makes it look as though I’m in a hostage situation, but the belligerent tool doesn’t even pause for breath in his conversation, and neither of us has commented on this ridiculous standoff.

Personally, I’m delighted.

I’ve created a brilliant solution to the lazy invasiveness of a man so unhappy in his job he doesn’t even bother saying hello.

I don’t know who he’s talking to in his (never-ending) phone conversations, but I’m making a stand (ironically).

NO MORE IMAGES OF ME IN MY DRESSING GOWN LOOKING LIKE MY SOUL IS LEAVING MY BODY AND I’M ABOUT TO CROSS OVER TO THE OTHER SIDE.

And before anyone suggests reporting him, I assessed the situation and decided I don’t suddenly want my parcels being delivered by Mo Salah from the halfway line, arcing majestically into my neighbours’ hydrangeas two doors down.

And then have to see delivery notifications saying "We have delivered your parcel. Here it is nestled next to a fox poop, under Mrs Watkins bush." (Not a euphemism.)