Dear Madam (and I use the word advisedly),
Some weeks ago I ordered an eye mask from you to permit me the common luxury of sleep. I paid for express delivery and waited in anticipation.
That expectancy has since turned to anxiety. I fear the wheels may have fallen off your van and your delivery man been kidnapped by unscrupulous persons. Because of your many awards for customer care and employment excellence, I am sure you have already posted him as a missing person and have your minions scouring the city for news of him.
Knowing this neighbourhood as I do, I have sent out boy scouts armed with catapults and homing pigeons to locate and succour your undoubtedly acned messenger, who has, I suspect, been lured into a den serving potent drinks and fevered women who have taken his mind off his job and transferred it to his own gratification.
Perhaps selfishly, I feel that my own pleasure is more important than that of a thousand messengers, however pimply. I beg you to raise your eyes above your profit margins, retrieve your employee from the impure solicitations of the objects of his desire, fulfil your contract, and allow me the luxury of shielding my eyes from the blinding light of your incompetence in the sleep mask I have paid for. Otherwise I shall be forced to expend the little insomniac energy that remains to me in consulting my own solicitor.
One Who Never Sleeps (thanks to you)