Claire Dies (Briefly) in Bin H3 — While Paul Argues With The Courier Guy

Or: How I exited my body, hovered like a caffeine-soaked spectre above the depot, and came back purely because no one else knew the Omnisend login.

It began, as many near-death experiences do, with righteous indignation, questionable balance, and black coffee.

I was marching through the depot in full-blown Claire mode—one hand brandishing a clipboard, the other gripping a mug of black coffee like it was a holy relic. Someone had filed Marian Keyes under Self Help (again), and I was on a mission. My foot caught the edge of the bottom shelf in Bin H3, and the next thing I knew, I was airborne.

There was a splatter. A crack. And then darkness.

The mug hit the floor and shattered. Coffee exploded everywhere. I face-palmed into the vinyl tiles like a caffeinated meteor.

The Out-of-Body Experience: Sponsored by Concussion and Poorly Placed Shelving

Next thing I knew, I was looking down at myself from roughly fifteen metres in the air, hovering above the depot’s rafters like an annoyed ghost with a to-do list. My body was facedown between two aisles, a puddle of coffee spreading beneath me like a dark halo.

Steve heard the thud.

To his credit, he came running. Unfortunately, his reaction was somewhere between a chicken on hot coals and a Victorian midwife. He stared. He gasped. He dropped his scanner.

Then he ran off shouting—elbows flailing, knocking over a display of Jojo Moyes like a clumsy tornado:

“Paul! PAUL! Claire fell! I think she’s dead!”

Meanwhile...

Paul was finally—after seventeen minutes of spiritual trial-by-hold-music—speaking to a human at The Courier Guy.

Paul: “Hi, I’m enquiring about parcel UAFS34TZ. It was meant to go to Chantelle in Centurion, but the POD says it was delivered and signed by someone named Natasha.”
Courier Guy: “Yes, it was delivered. Signed by Natasha.”
Paul: “Yes. That’s the problem. Chantelle doesn’t know a Natasha. She lives alone.”
Courier Guy: “Maybe Natasha is her receptionist?”
Paul: “It’s a residential address. There is no receptionist. I really don’t think that’s what’s happened.”

At this point, Steve returned, breathless, slightly pale.

Steve: “She’s on the floor! Her eyes are closed! There’s liquid everywhere! I think it’s brain! Or coffee! Or both!”

Paul calmly walked down the aisle, still holding the phone to his ear.

And there I was. Facedown. Silent. Zoe perched firmly on my back like the world’s most judgemental therapy dog. She let out a low, almost mournful howl and then—because timing is everything—sat down squarely across my lower back.

“I’m glad we had her dewclaws removed at birth,” I thought from the ether.

Steve (hissing): “Paul. Hang up. Call an ambulance. She’s not moving!”
Paul: “Steve, quiet. We don’t know that yet.”
Courier Guy: “Uh… what’s going on there?”
Paul: “Nothing urgent. Please continue. So—this Natasha... do you have a contact number?”

That was it. That was the moment I knew, with absolute spectral certainty, that if I died in that depot, Paul would not only carry on—but he’d finish his courier query first.

I tried to scream. I managed a wheeze that sounded like a deflating accordion played by regret. Zoe blinked and jumped off me with the same energy as someone quietly stepping off a malfunctioning escalator.

Steve (now fanning me with a Frieda Macfadden book): “Paul. This isn't coffee. She’s leaking. Is it brain fluid? It looks like coffee, but it could be brain fluid. It’s warm.”
Paul: “It’s probably coffee.”
Courier Guy: “Do you need emergency services, sir?”
Paul: “Only if they can track Natasha and retrieve Chantelle’s missing parcel.”

Ghost-Claire Micromanages the Crisis

I began to drift further upward toward a metaphysical plane that looked suspiciously like the stockroom at Exclusive Books, but quieter. I saw a light. I considered entering it. Then I remembered: no one else knows the Omnisend login.

If I died, who would send the New Arrivals email? Who would segment the Romance crowd? Who would fix the broken link in the “Books with Sad Endings” automation?

Steve: “Paul, what if she’s in a coma? Should we... cover her with something? A tarpaulin? Some of those Penguin tote bags we just ordered?”
Paul (on hold): “Steve, flow chart. Focus. Is she dead: Yes — nothing we can do. No — we can deal with it after the call.”

Resurrection, via Email Automation Panic

And then—

A gust of air. A spark of awareness. A single, dramatic cough, like a phoenix returning from a mid-week nap.

I bolted upright, eyes wild, hair askew, coffee-smeared and glowing with purpose. I rose like a resurrected Regency heroine who’d just discovered the estate wasn’t entailed after all.

Me (raspy but commanding): “DO YOU KNOW THE OMNISEND PASSWORD?”

Recovery & Reflection

I spent the next ten minutes sipping sugar water from a paper cup while Steve fetched jelly babies and Rescue Remedy “just in case of ghosts.” Paul emailed Chantelle. Zoe hovered like an emotional support meatloaf.

We never found Natasha. But we did refund Chantelle. And I wrote down every password in three different places.

Takeaways from the Afterlife

• Courier companies will always believe Natasha.
• Steve handles emergencies like a squirrel in a thunderstorm with a Victorian nursing degree.
• Paul needs three confirmed data points before he panics.
• And Claire will micromanage her own death, thank you very much.

If you ever see a flicker above the H shelves, don’t worry. That’s just me. Making sure the Marian Keyes books aren’t filed under Self Help.

ReadMatter: Because books matter. Accuracy matters. And Claire really needs a helmet.