Why my favourite email is a parcel tracking notification: Mel Buttle

Remember getting mail as a kid? How utterly thrilling it was, writes Mel Buttle on her love for a visit from the postie.

‘I ’ve got a parcel coming today,” I say excitedly to my partner, as I obsessively refresh the tracking number again and again to see if it’s moved location.

I’m in luck. “It’s at Redbank for processing,” I announce to no one but myself really. Also, I have no idea what “processing” means. It’s like when I check a can of deodorant for the ingredients, nodding to myself, OK it’s got magnesium hydroxide and stearic acid, perfect, that should be all good.

I can’t help but feel that processing is a good sign, it feels like the parcel has inched one step closer to my mailbox. I have a mental image of what goes on at mail centres, I imagine it’s like Santa’s workshop meets airport baggage handling, busy hands playing a not-quite-as-fun game of pass the parcel, as they process my second packet of pimple patches for this month down the line. “More pimple stuff for Buttle, copy that, makes sense with her order of pancake mix from Hawaii and that carton of Barossa reds she got in January,” they’d say as they stamped things and threw them into trucks. Over-thinker? Not me.

Remember getting mail as a kid? How utterly thrilling it was. It’d be a letter from Nana addressed to me, and Mum would make a big deal out of it, “I can’t open that because it’s your special letter from Nana, it doesn’t have my name on it, so it’s not for me.”

You’d feel like royalty opening that letter, trying to rip it open before Mum, who clearly knew what was in it, would say, “Open it carefully, there might be something special in there that you don’t want to tear.” The tension would be palpable as you tossed the card and letter aside and focused your full attention on the Agro colouring-in page that Nana had clipped out of her newspaper just for you.

Brisbane comedian Mel Buttle shares her love for a good parcel.

You’d then have to ring Nana and say thank you and answer the obligatory, “How’s school, how tall are you now and are you eating all your dinner and being good?” Should you rush through your colouring in and get bored, you’d be given the task of writing a letter back to Nana.

Out the good paper would come, and a shiny silver Parker pen that felt so heavy would be on loan from Mum’s handbag. “That’s my good crossword pen, I want that back, please,” Mum would explain.

I’d sit at the table and write Nana two pages of non sequitur-style, stream-of-consciousness ramblings. I remember one letter I wrote was all about what I’d do if I ever met the Ninja Turtles. Safe to say, the entire second page was a very detailed explanation of the sorts of activities Michelangelo and I would do seeing as we’re now best friends. Lucky Nana.

I hear the postie bike. “He’s here! He’s here!” I shout as I race outside to personally collect the parcel from the postie.

“Hello, I’m good, thanks so much, yes I’m Mel,” I say to the postie, as my eyes don’t leave the parcel in his hand. I run up the stairs, two at a time, my calves burning as I scramble through the drawer for scissors to open this long-awaited bundle of joy.

I check the name quickly on the front; it’s not my parcel, it’s for my partner. I throw it on the table and walk away defeated. Watching someone open and enjoy their parcel is like being in the presence of a friend with hot chips that they won’t share.

Thankfully, the parcel was just something boring: blue light-reflecting glasses. Not quite hot chips, more sweet potato fries then.