Don’t panic, don’t panic …. Cue the Benny Hill music and visions of Lance Corporal Jones from Dad’s Army’s dancing around like a mechanic who didn’t let the turbo cool down long enough before reaching down for the dropped 20mm socket.
Phoned the printer this morning to check what time I should be there to pick up the books and spoke to the pleasant young lass in the office:
“I’m sorry he’s not in this morning.”
Me: “That’s OK he said he would leave the books at the warehouse door.”
Her: “I’ll just check, can I call you back?
The minutes ticked ominously by like a cooling down BDA after a hot climb of Drummond Hill with my heart rate rising faster than an F1 dynamometer. Of course I knew that we were now in the hands of the book binder, but maybe he didn’t have the same sense of urgency as the printer?
An hour later, the phone rang, and I was quicker off the mark than Keith Cowan at a free post-rally buffet.
“How many books do you need?”
I told her.
“Oh!” followed by a hand being clamped over the speaker.
“Can you be here for 3pm, we close at 3.30?
A rather relieved reply followed: “I’ll be at the back door, waiting!”
Fingers crossed, eh?
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