Posted on September 3, 2014
Popped home today to meet a conservatory salesman.
Bear with me. It gets better. Honest guv.
I didn’t hold any great hopes for the meeting, but I was surprised.
Not because he was gluten free, or burnt out, or an expert on transom windows and Pilkington glass.
It’s because Tony top trumped our friend Anne (the one with the coeliac sister, who commutes daily from Amiens to Heathrow). Tony commutes – wait for it – from the Dordogne to Great Yarmouth.
Frankly I was agog.
The talk of openings, angles, low emissivity and self cleaning glass washed over me, as I visualised Tony sat in his restored farmhouse looking over the Dordogne, sipping wine, whilst musing about his commute. He wowed me with tails of catfish and French camaraderie and the emergence of sans gluten products in the shops (except Le Dimanche when France is fermé).
Tony and I were brothers in arms, I wanted his life, his swims with catfish, his views of the river, his fine wines for €4.
Reality then bit – Gorleston to Norwich kills me as a commute so the Dordogne to Yarmouth would, let me think, massacre me.
Tony, thanks, I admire your dedication to the future of uPVC but I’ll find someone in a white van who commutes 2 miles, rather than pay your prices to fund your commute.
You sold me a lifestyle, I wanted, I’m well jel. I want more tales of Gallic daring do, so conversely, perhaps, tomorrow, I’m placing an order with you.
Tony, it was a masterclass in sales.
But if I find out you live in a flat in Lowestoft, you’re road kill.