Just been out to collect my son. The night is dark but clear, and cold. The road is a ‘nice’ quiet suburban road, with reasonable sized houses set about 20 feet back from the kerb.
And not a single one has a house number that can be read from the road! I got out of the car and contemplated wandering up to a few doors to squint at the tiny, tiny numbers on pretty little flowery ceramic plates that cleverly reflected the streetlights, but reasoned that I would probably attract the attention of the local plod if I did that. So I called my son on his mobile and instructed him to come out and find me.
What kind of pretentious moron does not put a legible number on their house? “Oh, I don’t need a number. The people I want to see know where to find me!” No they don’t! The person coming to deliver the goods your sort of people order on the internet need to find you, and if they get bored, they’ll dump your goods somewhere and serve you right. The ambulance who comes for you when you have your heart attack will spend those vital minutes cruising up and down trying to spot your 1 inch high numbers and by the time they find you, you’ll be cold, and heading for that special hell reserved for you and the people that think tofu is a neat idea.
I feel better now.

By the way, for any non-Brits, plod is a term of endearment for the police force, from the Noddy books for children by Enid Blyton, where the policeman was called Mr Plod.

Have a nice day – unless you have tiny house numbers