It always seems to be that when you are waiting for a package to be delivered, excited at the thought of the contents wrapped up tightly and cuddled in tissue paper cradled in a big brown box, that it won’t show when it’s meant to. The estimation time proving the definition of the word, its loose in it terms and really distrusting, disappointing but expected, I begin to doubt the prediction. I have to wait; I can’t hurry it along or persuade it to get to me quicker, that brown box has a pace of its own. The apprehension is like Christmas, I can’t sit still for a moment, all noise is muted as I listen for the door. For the knock, knock, knock. I look out from the upstairs window, peeping through the blind trying not to be seen but wanting so much to see that big burly van and the brown box, if I wait here and strain my eyes as I stare at my street it ironically won’t show its just how it goes. Its almost middle evening, the moon is high in the sky and the lingering red clouds have lost their red colour for deep cool blue. The feeling of excitement begins to fade and the realisation occurs that it isn’t coming tonight, I open the door to feel the fresh evening cold settling on my cheeks looking left and right, no its not coming tonight. My cat scurries in from outside, thinking I was holding the door for him. I guess I will have to wait a little longer for that big brown box.