After a six week wait, the Blind Man arrives on the dot of eight o’clock. He quickly unloads everything and gets it all ready. Twenty minutes later, there’s hesitant beckoning from the conservatory.
Regrettably, it seems that the box with our name and order number contains someone else’s blinds and it’s anyone’s guess where ours are.
So, he packs everything else away amid lots of hushed mobile phone calls. There’s even a call for me, to admit that, yes, how embarrassing it is to send out the wrong blinds.
By now, he’s decamped to his van, still on the phone. Eventually, there is a knock on the front door. The blinds have been located and there will be a diplomatic exchange at junction 13 of the motorway.