‘You couldn’t make it up!’ – as one of my siblings commented when I divulged the story I am about to share on here! Frustrating though it has been, I am now able to see the funny side – and make my own sardonic little aside, ‘At least it was a wool, rather than a knocking, shop!’
So, when I moved here three months ago, I asked for, and got, my very own telephone number – or so I thought! However, weird, and downright worrying, phone calls started almost immediately. In many, I was asked if I were the proprietor of a shop selling wool in the vicinity; in a few, I was informed that invoices were awaiting my dosh; in still others, that arrangements I had, apparently, made were welcomed, or not as the case may be!
I did wonder, for a while, whether I had entered some kind of alternative telephonic universe – this is Glastonbury, after all! – in which coded messages were being passed using the hair-products of ruminants as a symbol. For all I knew, the words, ‘Are you the Wool Shop?’ could have been code for advanced Illuminati meetings and/or dodgy handshakes and peculiarly-adjusted hose a la Masons!
Today, after the twenty-fifth (I have been counting!) such communication, I finally blew my top – and, intimating forcefully that I gave not a toss how many online links told my caller that I was a purveyor of woollen articles, slammed the phone down in some degree of pique.
I then got onto my telephone company, which I shall call Peace of God Com (because, having been kept waiting on the blower for half an hour, methinks they do, indeed, pass all understanding and endure for frigging ever!) – and, having finally got hold of a human being, tersely outlined my reason for calling. I explained, with firm clarity, that I had evidently been given a number already owned by another and that I felt I was entitled to my own set of digits! I also made the point, assertively, that, of the twenty-eight phone calls I have received since mid-January, twenty-five of them have been concerning this mysterious, possibly Diagon Alley type, establishment which, unlike me, caters to those of a knitting and sewing frame of mind. I forbore to let him know that my record – with both awl and knitting needle – would gain me Nul Points from any right-minded seamstress, let alone that any advice I might give with regard to wool would be very much a case of the blind leading the blind, and contented myself with a somewhat glacial air as I maundered on.
Fortunately, he saw my point. Just as well: I was in no mood to be trifled with and, had he given me any lip, I would, without a doubt, have given it to him with both barrels.
I am now in possession of a new number, my very own – or so I have been led to believe! Knowing my luck, I will probably now find that I am sharing the number with the local House of Negotiable Affection (if such a thing exists, which I am sure it does not!) and that wool will be the very least of it when I am phoned in future!
I still have absolutely no idea where, or what, this ruddy wool shop is!