The Needle of Doom
The air in our quaint Fife based semi-detached crackles with a tension thicker than fog.
Not the usual marital discord over whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher, oh no. This is a Hitchcockian suspense of a far more personal and frankly, terrifying nature. My Amazon delivery driver, bless his oblivious heart, is a mere three stops away. And my wife, Fiona, the keeper of the household budget and sworn enemy of my burgeoning vinyl collection, has just pulled up into the driveway. Despite being dispatched in the early hours of this morning, my delivery had managed to schedule itself alongside my wife finishing work and, of course, crossing the threshold before the item that had tempted me a mere 17 hours before.
You see, dear reader, a weakness plagues me. A siren song whispers from the digital aisles of online retailers, promising sonic bliss in the form of limited-edition pressings and long-lost classics. My fingers, seemingly operating independently of my better judgment, clicked "add to basket" on a pristine copy of "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars" in the early hours of this morning. A moment of weakness, I assure you. A fleeting lapse in fiscal fortitude.
Now, the digital breadcrumbs of my indiscretion are materialising in the real world. The Amazon tracking app, usually a source of mild anticipation for mundane household goods, has become a harbinger of domestic disaster. Each notification – "Out for Delivery," "Two Stops Away" – sends a fresh wave of icy dread down my spine.
Fiona, meanwhile, is blissfully unaware. She's likely in the kitchen, humming some cheerful tune while preparing a sensible, budget-friendly lentil soup. Little does she know that within minutes, our humble abode could become the scene of a very unsensible, vinyl-related homicide.
I peer through the curtains, a pathetic imitation of James Stewart in Rear Window. There he is. The familiar grey van. My nemesis on four wheels.
My mind races. Do I intercept him at the door, feigning ignorance and hoping he'll simply move on? Do I concoct an elaborate diversion, perhaps a sudden plumbing emergency requiring my immediate attention in the downstairs toilet? Or do I simply accept my fate, offering a final, heartfelt apology as Fiona discovers the illicit grooves?
The van door slams shut. He's at the gate. This is it. The point of no return. He strides up the path, a cardboard package clutched in his hand – my beautiful, beautiful, (soon-to-be-evidence-in-my-murder) vinyl.
Perhaps, just perhaps, if I act quickly, I can stash it under front door rug, but, no, that will mean risking its perfect integrity. Or maybe, if I offer Fiona a run down on the certain value that my purchase will hold and which can only increase in time, far better than risking investment in stocks and shares… no, that will only be met with raised eyebrows and the stare of death. She's far too astute for such clumsy subterfuge.
He's ringing the bell. The doorbell. That innocent chime, usually a herald of convenience, now sounds like the opening bars of Bernard Herrmann's most chilling score. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the impending doom.
This isn't just a delivery; it's a confrontation. A showdown between my audiophile aspirations and my marital survival. The needle is about to drop, and I have a sinking feeling it won't be on my new Bowie LP.
Wish me luck. I have a feeling I'm going to need it. And maybe a very good solicitor.
© 2025 Rob Taylor