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Yesterday I wandered down with the rucksack of recyclable glass to Homebase, only to find the recycle bins have gone. I continued on to Morrisons, and was successful, although the shop itself was closed and I was unable to buy pickling vinegar or soya sauce.
(Some days it's all about the condiments)
I'm having another go at sourdough, and I placed the slop in what I took to be the warm place in the house, on top of the boiler, and then on the shelf by the boiler. Meanwhile the dregs from the fridge - to be disposed of for having the Wrong Kind of Mould - has tripled in volume. Yes, my unheated kitchen is warmer than the boiler cupboard.
My decision to complete my Arden Shakespeare edition collection goes on in leaps and hops, and the bagging of a Measure for Measure (the considerably cheaper of two apparently identical editions) brings the wants down to All's Well That Ends Well, The Comedy of Errors, Cymbeline, Love's Labour's Lost, Merry Wives of Windsor, Pericles, Prince of Tyre, The Sonnets, The Tempest, Titus Andronicus, Troilus and Cressida and The Two Noble Kinsmen. Now to ensure I travel with the list. ETA: I now see - having alphabeticised them - that I lack Richard III
Safe Style, Sussex House, Lower Stone Street, Maidstone, ME15 6YT - ring 01622 697090 for details (ask for Tom) - rang me again today after phoning me twice on Thursday. I kept Tom talking for quite a while, and was deeply enthusiastic, understanding that he has to have a job and pay the rent, but this is getting ridiculous. I asked to speak to his supervisor, but surprise, surprise, he wasn't in, because he was having car trouble. I said I was prepared to wait, but Tom said he wouldn't be in until the afternoon. I was still prepared to wait but - well, how can he supervise if he was never there. I ask him how Maidstone is.
Well, there are supervisors and managers.
Ah, let's talk to a manager then. Let's go further up the food chain.
Tom clearly doesn't know what a food chain is, but the phone goes quiet as he tracks down a manager, or at least someone he claims to be a manager. I ponder if this is the time to leave the phone off the hook, but I want to talk to the bastard.
Manager offers to remove my name from their database, and delete the number. I insist on Dr a couple of times. He keeps forgetting to use it. I point out that I have their number and they wouldn't like it if I kept ringing up to waste their time. He promises to delete me.
I almost hope they ring a fourth time. I've thought of lots of comedy business about living in a mansion and losing a pen and calling them Safepiles.
I wonder what the double glazing cold caller's equivalent of spitting in your soup is? Coming round and breaking your windows?
* Pointless (and frankly not thought through) geographical reference.
(Some days it's all about the condiments)
I'm having another go at sourdough, and I placed the slop in what I took to be the warm place in the house, on top of the boiler, and then on the shelf by the boiler. Meanwhile the dregs from the fridge - to be disposed of for having the Wrong Kind of Mould - has tripled in volume. Yes, my unheated kitchen is warmer than the boiler cupboard.
My decision to complete my Arden Shakespeare edition collection goes on in leaps and hops, and the bagging of a Measure for Measure (the considerably cheaper of two apparently identical editions) brings the wants down to All's Well That Ends Well, The Comedy of Errors, Cymbeline, Love's Labour's Lost, Merry Wives of Windsor, Pericles, Prince of Tyre, The Sonnets, The Tempest, Titus Andronicus, Troilus and Cressida and The Two Noble Kinsmen. Now to ensure I travel with the list. ETA: I now see - having alphabeticised them - that I lack Richard III
Safe Style, Sussex House, Lower Stone Street, Maidstone, ME15 6YT - ring 01622 697090 for details (ask for Tom) - rang me again today after phoning me twice on Thursday. I kept Tom talking for quite a while, and was deeply enthusiastic, understanding that he has to have a job and pay the rent, but this is getting ridiculous. I asked to speak to his supervisor, but surprise, surprise, he wasn't in, because he was having car trouble. I said I was prepared to wait, but Tom said he wouldn't be in until the afternoon. I was still prepared to wait but - well, how can he supervise if he was never there. I ask him how Maidstone is.
Well, there are supervisors and managers.
Ah, let's talk to a manager then. Let's go further up the food chain.
Tom clearly doesn't know what a food chain is, but the phone goes quiet as he tracks down a manager, or at least someone he claims to be a manager. I ponder if this is the time to leave the phone off the hook, but I want to talk to the bastard.
Manager offers to remove my name from their database, and delete the number. I insist on Dr a couple of times. He keeps forgetting to use it. I point out that I have their number and they wouldn't like it if I kept ringing up to waste their time. He promises to delete me.
I almost hope they ring a fourth time. I've thought of lots of comedy business about living in a mansion and losing a pen and calling them Safepiles.
I wonder what the double glazing cold caller's equivalent of spitting in your soup is? Coming round and breaking your windows?
* Pointless (and frankly not thought through) geographical reference.
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