Was quite happily vacuuming (well, I say ‘happily’ obviously I mean ‘begrudgingly’) the hall when the doorbell rang. Entered porch to see slowly retreating back of a rather large, grubby looking, badly dressed, bald man.
(I’m not large-ist or bald-ist in the slightest – but the grubby looking, badly dressed bit was putting me about somewhat.)
Realised he’d not seen me, so quickly turned round and went back into the house – then stopped. What if he now turned round and saw me behind the glass door? Hall light was on and he’d see me moving. Nowhere to hide. So went back into the porch and opened the front door. By now he’d sauntered all way to the edge of the drive. On hearing the door open he stopped, turned, and looked at me expectantly with eyebrows raised. As if I’d rung his doorbell.
“Yes?” I shouted – couldn’t believe I was having to shout to speak to someone who’d just rung my bloody doorbell. He pointed at his feet.
Him: Want a quote, love?
Him (bit louder): Want a quote, love?
Me: A quote for what?
Me: No thanks, not at the moment.
Him: Want a quote for future?
Me: Err…no thanks.
He adjusted his trousers, scratched himself, waved and loped back to his van.
No thank you – I certainly do not want a quote from someone who speaks to me in badly constructed sentences, looks like he’s spent the week living in a skip, happily scratches his nether regions in front of me and to top it all off – has only one tooth!!