One never knows whether one should tip a tradesman.
Or in this case a delivery man.
Husband had taken George out for a walk so I was on my own when the man arrived to deliver six internal doors. As he carried them in I panicked over whether I should tip him.
One part of me said, 'It's his job.'
'Yes, but he's being very careful not to damage anything.'
'Well so he should.'
'Yes, but he hasn't got anyone with him to help him.'
'That's a problem for him and his employers.'
'Yes, but he's got to climb up our steps.'
'Again, that's his job.'
'But it's quite warm and he's sweating.'
'He can take his coat off.'
'Yes, but he's ... quite large. I don't want him to have a heart attack.'
'That's not your problem: it's his job.'
'But I would hate to hear on the news that a Wickes delivery man had had a heart attack and died and I hadn't even given him a tip.'
So I did. After a further dilemma over how much. And whether I could get away with pretending to be the cleaner - I was dressed for it - and therefore not responsible for tips. 'That's the missus' job, guv.'