…It’s getting to the point where even I think I’m making this up.
Quick tabloid-style re-cap: Double-glazing fitters go rogue in rural England and enbark on an orgy of lesbianism, breaking & entry and ineptitude whilst spectacularly failing to install any windows. Part 3…
In a strange masochistic sort of way I was rather looking forward to a third helping of hilarity. The fitter who arrived made a good start by slipping over on the wet grass and banging his head, but then proceeded to fix the broken pane without further incident. ‘All done,’ he announced cheerfully.
‘Oh,’ I replied somewhat despondently, ‘thanks’.
For a few days my housemate and I moped around the house feeling cheated of a suitably rousing conclusion, but as every great trilogy teaches us – It is always darkest before the dawn.
The following week I received a call from a woman requesting payment for the work. When I enquired as to what discount they were going to give me I was informed in a polite but firm tone that their service had been exemplary, and that no discount would be forthcoming. With no small amount of relish I rattled off the list of atrocities perpetrated in the course of providing exemplary service ‘…and then he left me a note on some toilet paper with kisses at the bottom, then he broken into my house, then he wouldn’t return my calls…’ She tried in vain to get a word in edgeways, but I was enjoying myself too much. Eventually we agreed to disagree and scheduled a time for me to come into the showroom and discuss the matter further with her boss.
The lady behind the reception desk was a little taken back by my overfamiliarity. ‘I beg your pardon!’
‘Oh I’m sorry. You’ve just been given a small insight into what it’s like to deal with your company.’
‘Oh, you’re the window guy?’
‘No, you’re the window guys. I’m the guy getting his house broken into by you guys guy.’
There was a brief silence while we both checked to see if my reply had made grammatical sense. It had. We moved on. Deadlock was quickly reached once again.
‘Look,’ I continued, ‘if you’d made a conscious decision to differentiate yourself from other double-glazers by offering a more amorous, burgular-esque quality of service I might have been prepared to pay a little more. Then again I most probably would have gone elsewhere. I’d say a third-off sounds reasonable.’
A couple of other potential customers had arrived, and the woman was keen to usher me out of the showroom and into the workshop. I was handed over to her boss and we continued our conversation in the next room. Neither party it seemed was prepared to give any ground.
It was looking as though all hope was lost when into the workshop rode Jason – knight in shining armour, writer of love letters, installer of bits of cardboard and all-round good (if mildly moronic) egg. ‘JASON!’ I greeted loudly. ‘You don’t call, you don’t write. You little tease.’ Jason stood dumbfounded; the aggressively heterosexual reward centres in his brain firing on all cylinders but coming back with nada. I could almost see the adrenaline pulsing as his flight or fight impulse chose the former. He turned on his heels and walked straight into a display cabinet.
Conservatively I would say that over the next ten seconds roughly thirty panes of glass exploded. The cabinet fell backwards and knocked over three sizable free-standing windows. They in turn hit other panes, dropping like a deliberately placed set of giant dominos. I watched events unfold with a childlike awe, convinced that right there and then no one on the planet was having a better lunch break than me.
Jason responded in the only way he knew how. ‘F@ck.’
‘This guy’s hilarious,’ I commented, ‘does he do requests? So, about this discount?’
Jason’s boss couldn’t look me in the eye. ‘Fair enough sir.’