Mud sticks when I battle cold callers

One day, I was in the garden, in the tasteful outfit of a mud-encased labourer, when I heard the ringing. I flew into the house faster than Usain Bolt and dived for the phone before its mewling died, hoping to speak to someone I actually knew. Wrong. For the third time that day it was a junk call — but this time it was not a recorded voice from some shyster claiming he could mend my ailing computer. nor was it from some posh-voiced dame from the home Counties about the non-return of my income tax. nor that bloke who asks at least three times a week if my oven needs cleaning. no, this one was a real live chappy. I said ‘hello’ and turned round to admire the mud I’d trailed across the beige carpet, so thoughtfully left behind as part of the furniture and fittings by the previous and obviously less grubby owners. Off went the cheery chappy into his scripted sales pitch for windows. I told him we already had windows, as we found that they helped to keep out stuff like wind, rain, stray cats and burglars. I then invited him to ‘depart’ by slamming down the receiver. seconds later the phone rang again. The barked two-word order to go elsewhere was this time taken to heart. If I want something, I go and get it. If I haven’t got something, then I neither need nor want it. I shall continue to rail at cold callers who irritate me with their unwanted sales patter, scams and con tricks. however, I am getting a bit low on carpet shampoo and my old bristle scrubbing brush is a tad on the bald side. Perhaps I will sit by the phone awaiting a call from a nice man from a carpet shampooing company, or perhaps one from a purveyor of mud-brown carpets. Ms Carol S. Wilkie, Cheddar, Somerset.