Well, this is how today went down.
I am lounging in a soft, squishy recliner chair with a handy scotch and dry ginger to hand, the iPad is tuned to the most amazing site of sparkling, blingy million dollar plus jewels of which I can only fantasise about wearing, and which does wondrous things for my personal drive.
Suddenly this nirvana is rudely shattered by an outburst blast of thunderous proportions from the minuscule sized Jack Russell appropriately called Monty.
He seriously believes that he is a ferocious mastiff capable of any physical feat, and the best security since Robert Peel invented the police force.
Now this horrendous racket usually means intruders on his domain.
Sure enough there is a thumping at the front door and a smiling, or to be honest more like grimacing, salesman is standing there holding out the top of his t-shirt for my inspection.
Now I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so it takes a few seconds to realise that he has a logo embroidered on the shirt that is meant to replace the more mundane identification card carried by most salesmen.
I dutifully squint to read it and get a whiff of some odour which has accumulated from a long day spent trudging in the heat from door to door.
OK. He is a roofing specialist who is here to save my roof from eternal damnation by offering to fix something which isn’t broken.
I explain that there is no probs with the roof, but am assured that only his encyclopaedic knowledge can verify the truth of this.
Again, no thank you.
I am very condescendingly told that Madam probably has never been on her roof and very likely could not spot any issues.
Madam forbears to respond that in another life, Madam was a licensed Real Estate Agent handling many hundreds of properties and most certainly has been on many roofs in a very long career.
Again, no thank you.
He now offers to get up on the roof to prove that most of the tiles are either cracked or broken, but Madam will need to provide a ladder for his use.
No, how many ways can I say no without using a serious of four letter words.
For goodness sake, there are only two letters in the word no.
Which one doesn’t he understand?
Now at this point, I am getting furious, not so much with the caller, as I know from personal experience that cold calling at doors is a true **** of a job with a very low percentage hit rate and quite demoralising until you have time to grow the thickest of skins.
No! I am getting progressively madder at my husband who is sitting in the kitchen within both full earshot and sight of the front door and killing himself laughing and muttering comments just loud enough for me to hear.
Now you would think that my hero would come to the rescue.
Not on your nellie, this is too good a show.
Monty is still barking his nut off, the Husband is still passing low voiced snide remarks and the caller is getting more strident.
I cannot close the front door as Monty is standing guard between me and the screen door, the caller is still rabbiting on, and I am losing my rag.
But most pressing of all, I desperately want to get back to my scotch and jewelled dream world.
Only solution, give Monty a decided firm push in the rear, slam the door shut and then in no uncertain terms advise my better half that he will now need to get his own dinner or starve.
Does anyone think that I should keep him another 50 years?
The husband I mean, Monty can certainly stay.
Boy do I need that scotch and another one to back it up!
Share your thoughts below.