Amazon delivery driver, Ian Napton, calls so often at the Jackson house, he’s joining the family for Xmas dinner.

I was flattered to be asked. Usually, I catch people in the bath, on the toilet or in flagrante. Sometimes, I leave parcels with the neighbours just to be an annoying dick, but something clicked with the Jackson family. They are different.

Ian Napton, A grown man in shorts.

The Jackson’s are regular internet shoppers. Over time, they have gotten to know Ian a bit better. Doorstep chats go on a bit longer than they should. They claim he provides wise counsel and tells a good joke.

When you visit one house regularly enough, you pick up on the little dramas. Perhaps someone opens the door wearing a dressing gown in the middle of the day. Maybe there’s a large collection of wine bottles in the recycling box or repeated deliveries of batteries from Anne Summers. You build a picture, gradually you exchange a few words, and eventually, start sharing confidences. It’s not all about dumping a box on the porch, it’s about building a relationship.

Ian Napton, moocher.

We were writing Xmas cards when my wife asked about sending one to Ian? It was then we realised that he has become part of the family. It seems logical to invite him to be part of our Xmas. We all order stuff we don’t want just so he’ll call. Even the dog likes him.

David Jackson, future ex pater familias

I see what I do as therapy. Because they only see me for a short period, they feel comfortable in opening up about what’s bothering them. I’d never break their confidence, it’s all part of the delivery driver’s code. We swear an oath and everything.

St Ian, self-righteous git.