It begins “Dear Sir/Madam,” and, being the former, I read on.
I pause at this point. I have an O2 mobile phone, it has a crappy signal in my house, the new cell site would be up the hill a bit, off to the side of the road (not a particularly nice site either, ignore the bit about ‘nature trail’ it’s a path between two housing estates).
YES! FINALLY a better mobile phone signal. BRILLIANT!!
Then I remember that I live in a community and, perhaps, there are good reasons as to why someone would object to having a good mobile phone signal in their house. I pause and despite some serious thinking whilst I watch an episode of Scrubs (the one where they all drift in and out of a medieval fantasy, hilarious!) I can’t think of any off the top of my head. I can only surmise that, with it being 2009, if you don’t have a mobile phone you must be ‘of an age’ that views those that carry them as suspicious, communist-card toting luddites. Or hippies. Or, god forbid, a Liberal Democrat.
So I return to the missive and read on. And on. And on. I’m less than half way through the first few sentences when I give up.
I know who has put this through my door and I’m sure he means well but I’m hungry and can’t really be bothered reading it all. However I vow to read the rest of the missive later, noting that the return address is included, figuring that once I’ve done some of my OWN research I may (or may not) sign in agreement and post it off.
I do note that there is no option to disagree with the stated objection, thereby agreeing that the erection (waahey!) of the base station should go ahead, but decide to cross that bridge later.
My troubles behind me (for such things do trouble me, dear reader) I turn my attention to more timely and important matters, namely unlocking Everlong by the Foo Fighters in Guitar Hero World Tour on the Wii. I’m midway through one of the songs in the setlist (Sweet Home Alabama by Lynnrd Skynnrd if you must know) when the doorbell chimes.
I pause the song, annoyed, and stomp to the front door. Lo and behold the very man who pushed said missive through our letterbox today is back to “collect my signed copy”.
Now, I’m a reasonable man but there are a few things that irk me greatly and one is people who make assumptions on my behalf. That just makes an ass of you and an umption of me, and there is nothing I hate more than being an umption, let me tell you!
“Ahh I’ve not signed it, not sure I will to be honest”, says I, confident that’ll put the wind up the cheeky sod.
“Ok, no problem, cheers”, he says, all too cheerful. How very dare he! Not only has he made me an umption of me, but he has the gall and sheer affrontery to be cheery about it!
I am irked, possibly even miffed, by this and am left with no other option.
I reach out and grab him by the throat and, whilst squeezing his windpipe and cutting off his air supply, I reiterate my dislike of being an umption and, just when he’s approaching his final breath, I let go. He drops to the ground and I stand over him for a moment to make sure I haven’t killed the old bugger (he’s 70 if he’s a day) and, satisfied he isn’t going to die whilst on my property, consider the matter closed.
I turn and close the door firmly, but not before he’s choked out a final “sorry to have bothered you…”.
So, dear reader, I’m sure you feel my pain. It seems I shall remain adrift in a calm sea, with no mobile signal to billow my sails.