Despite my conscientious support of local record stores, I still do a fair amount of mail-ordering. I mail-order sent to me at work. This results in a steady stream of battered packages that, since the professional mail carriers only get them as far as the lobby of our offices, are transported the final fifty feet by our company receptionist. We've had a large number of receptionists over the course of our four-plus years.
Evidence suggests that it is a job for which competent people have limited patience.
This makes me feel alternately ungrateful, since she has managed to disappear without being thanked, and goofy, since dropping off a package is plainly such a trivial part of her routine that it doesn't merit acknowledgment. My simplest recourse would be to buy some of her records, but until very recently she hadn't made any yet. She has now. There are two. One, called Eight So Low , is a live recording of a short, genial acoustic-folk set from earlier this year.