I don’t want you to think I’m being unkind here, or I’m shattering any customer confidentiality clauses, but we do get quite a few lunatics walking through the doors of Butler Sheetmetal.
I think it most probably has something to do with the fact that we’re on the main road leading up to Colne. Not that I’m saying Colne is full of lunatics, but that we’re on a busy main road with plenty of passing traffic, which is rather unusual for a business like ours.
If you’d like to see exactly where we are then there’s an aerial map here.
Last week we had some gentleman walk straight in through the door, as bold as brass, bearing gifts in the form of a 24 pack of Carlsberg. He just plonked them down on our notcher and started rooting through our scrap bins. I looked at John and John looked at me and we both looked at the bloke. Neither of us knew who the hell he was and he hadn’t even said hello. Not only that, but Carlsberg?
Once we’d despatched the metalling from our premises, John told me about another fruitloop who graced the Butler Empire with his presence.
A couple of years ago some character with a distinct stoop and his shirt-tails sticking through the fly of his trousers came careering through the door. Our door does tend to stick, but if you go at it too hard, it’ll fly open and you’re in danger of impaling yourself on the steel rack.
After his grand entrance, the funny looking shuffler squared up to John and asked him if we had any calendars. Taken aback, John stared at him and replied to the affirmative whilst pointing one out. Slightly perturbed at being presented with some crappy curling thing depicting the snow-scapes of Pendle, the chap retorted, “No. I meant mucky calendars.”
There are some people who you simply have to give in to, so John quickly raced over to the part of the shop where all the useless stuff gets thrown and plucked something out for him.
The greasy little goofball grinned inanely as he took the brown envelope containing the calendar and had a peek inside. The grin broadened as he gave a knowing wink and scuttled off like a cockroach on an icy puddle.
And the shirt tails sticking out through his flies?
Let’s just say, as he left, they looked like they been starched.
