My heart bleeds for cold-callers — it must be the most depressing job in the world
It’s always happening. It happened again last Friday. I had finished my Times column for Saturday and, taking advantage of the two hours left of daylight, fetched the wheelbarrow, pick and spade and set to work finishing the construction of a stone table outside our house in Derbyshire. But hardly had I started work than from inside the house I heard the telephone ring. Downing tools, running up from the garden, shedding gloves and kicking off boots I reached it, breathless but just in time.
‘Good afternoon, have you thought about a new kitchen? Our company would be happy to visit free of charge and give you a quote…’.
I cut him short as I’ve learned to — the earlier you interrupt the flow the easier it is terminate these conversations, wasting less time on both sides — and, fighting my irritation, communicated more or less courteously my longstanding, unyielding, implacable, unalterable resolve not to have a new fitted kitchen, or a fitted kitchen at all.
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