ieval History Wikipedia,
AW
When a man a man stops believing in God he doesn’t believe in nothing, he believes in anything – G K Chesterton.
Yesterday afternoon my wife bought a top for our 10-year-old granddaughter. Then, last night, as I watched my wife showing it to our daughter and getting a second opinion, I found myself agreeing with the Pope. You see, we live in Wales and our daughter in Canada, and the Pope said Skype is a, “Gift from God.”
AW
Fishy Business. Scotland might find it impossible to join the EU, the UK impossible to leave. As a U-kipper I may be forced to swim to that rocky pool north of the border and flap about with Salmond and Sturgeon. Such is life.
AW
This week’s classic headline... “Judge peers through eye slits to identify woman behind a veil.”
AW
Crazy
I decided to buy a cover for our Kindle Fire so I went to Tesco Online. I filled in all the nonsense on the form. Then they asked for my address, which I gave. Next, they wanted to know the nickname of my address. Now this may sound a bit strange, but I don’t have a nickname for my address. So I left that line blank. But when I pressed the “continue” button, it wouldn’t take me forward unless I put in a nickname. I tried three times, and three times it rejected me. I wouldn’t mind if it had caught me out telling a lie. But it’s a fact – I don’t have a nickname for my address.
I must admit that I’m a bit nonplussed. Not selling alcohol to someone under 18 is one thing. But refusing to flog a Kindle Cover to a guy who hasn’t got a nickname for his address is something else.
***
I watched The House of Fools on the tele the other day. Afterwards, I moseyed around to see if there was anything else worth watching, and stumbled on Benefit Street on channel 4. Some up-and-coming television producer should combine the two. It would be hilarious.
***
Cold Caller
As always, no names no pack-drill.
A golden rule of mine is that I never buy anything offered by someone knocking on door with another bargain. This is based on the old adage, “Don’t you call us, we’ll call you.” But, like all rules, it’s there to be broken.
The other day, your man knocks on the door and says, “Your roof is getting past it’s sell-by date. We’re offering a free survey, with a no obligation price-quote for a renovation, guaranteed for 12 months. Our surveyor will only take up 20 minutes of your time.”
Now time is worth more than gold. I don’t like wasting it. But a free survey and no-obligation quote – in exchange for a mere 20 minutes? OK. Why not? “Your on,” I said.
“Our surveyor will be here tomorrow at 1400 prompt,” says your man.
Comes 1400 the following day, and there’s no surveyor in sight. Two-fifteen came, and that was me browned off. If he found himself held up somewhere, then a phone call would fix it. But there was nothing. This guy was wasting my time so I went out and pumped-up the car’s tyres.
Then, at 1430, he arrives and, sans apology, goes into action with his tape measure and binoculars. Then we go indoors to get the price. This is when the, no obligation, free-quote, turned into a hard sell.
First of all, there was a lecture on how a roof is constructed. OK, it was very interesting, if that’s what you wanted to hear, but a slate-by-slate commentary on how to put a lid on a house is not my way of passing a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
Then came the bad news. Our roof was at the end of it’s life expectancy and was already showing the first signs of rigor mortis. But, thank God, this man knew the cure and had a gang of experts on tap.
He followed this with a blow-by-blow lecture on how these guys would renovate our failing dome. I’m too well mannered to tell people to bugger off but...
To cut a long story short, he now pulls out his calculator and does a complex calculation before announcing that all will be well if I part with £4,465 sometime in the next 12 months. “How does that sound?” he wants to know.
“Not a clue,” I tell him. “I’ve nothing to compare it with.”
“Did my colleague leave a pamphlet?” he wants to know.
“Yep,” I said, producing the folded paper and stuffing it in his hand.
“Ah,” he exclaims in surprise, opening the pamphlet and producing a voucher. “You qualify for a 25% discount. That’s very rare. I’ve only ever seen three of these since I started with the firm. Let me see...” He does another calculation. “Ah!” he exclaims, “that brings it down to “£3,349. How do you feel about that?”
“Fine,” I say, because I do feel fine.
“My colleague must have spotted something special about your location,” says the chancer. “I’ll have a word with my boss and see what he says.” He now produces his mobile and proceeds to call his boss – in my time.
After a load of verbal play-acting on the part of himself and his master, he says, “My boss is looking at your house on Google Earth right now, and he says it would make an ideal show-house. If you agree to have an advertising board in your garden we can drop the price to £2,500.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him.
“With an offer like this, you have to make the decision today,” he says, producing a wad of papers. “If you put £650 down, we’ll arrange the rest of the payments by instalments.”
“I was offered a free quote, valid for 12 months,” I told him.
“But if you don’t take the offer now, it will revert to £4, 465,” he told me.
“Well, if that’s the quote, that’s the quote,” I told him.
He finally departed at 1600, having wasted 2 hours of my precious time.
So there you are. The man could come and go with £2,000 and still make a profit. So, if he had started at £2.500 he might have been in with a chance... I said, “Might have.”
Moral: never break your own golden rule.
AW
Today's best headline: "I gave my husband a kidney but he left me and now I want it back."
AW
The UKIP councillor who thinks that David Cameron caused the flooding because of his support for gay marriage is obviously bonkers.
Anyone with an ounce of sense can see that Harriet Harman caused the floods with all this nonsense about women’s rights.
AW
The latest war cry, after units of alcohol and five cabbages a day, is “Sugar is the new tobacco.” Rubbish! Sugar is just the latest thong in the whip for lashing the plebs. They’ve killed off hunters and smokers. Now they’re after the fatties. Chocoholics are the new drink-drivers. If you’ve not had your turn yet, don’t worry, it’s in the pipeline. The nannies are coming.
AW
Why do I do It?
I’m sitting here sucking my thumb and banging myself on the head with a frying pan. It’s not serious, just a bit of therapy. You see, I’ve done it again. I’ve tried to book something over the internet. On the face of it, it’s an easy trap to fall into. But I’ve been down this road so many times that you’d think I would have learned by now. But, oh no, not me.
You see, Liz and I decided that this was the day that we would book airline tickets to go and visit our daughter and her family in Toronto; and we plumped for a date in March as a good day for the outward journey. So far so good. But being us, we can’t agree on a return date.
Liz thinks that, if we are going all that distance, we should stay out there for 3 weeks. Which makes sense. But we have a cat. And the cat needs looking after. And I’m the one nominated by the cat, and tout le monde, to be the keeper. OK, so we have a neighbour who will feed the beast whenever we go away. I’m very grateful for that, but this animal is growing old like me. In fact, my abacus tells me that, in cat years, pussy is exactly the same age as me. And the animal is beginning to feel its age. He’s got arthritis and a heart condition, so he needs medication. Unfortunately, though my friend down the road is quite happy to run around after a moggy, he draws the line at shoving pills down its throat. Fair enough.
Jon, our youngest son, and his wife, have volunteered to do the pilling. That’s brilliant, but they live 20 miles away,