Scaring the Straights (again)

NB: This anecdote originally first blogged on Ironmountain Canine's FB page, but was heartlessly deleted in the revamp.

So, another day another struggle to make sense of the Surrey way of commerce- having been delighted to find out that my local pet shop stocked frozen blocks of BARF dog food some months ago, I placed a weekly order and asked if it could be delivered, because wrestling with 10kg of frozen innards seemed strangely unappealing. Inevitably, I got the Surrey Stare, the sigh and the overwhelming desire to arrange things behind the counter that heralds a flat refusal to meet my needs. Every Tuesday for the entire summer had therefore seen me driving into Smalltown in a vile mood, failing to find a free parking bay on the high st, paying to park in Waitrose and invariably after hefting the frozen, slippery mass of blocks into my boot, spending a king's ransom on organic meat and salmon pinwheels. As the days of Autumn drew in I determined something would have to change in this arrangement (although, to be fair the sociopath who runs the pet shop would now sometimes open the door for me on the way out, bless him) and scoured the net for a firm that would deliver. Perfect.
The next trip to Charlie Chuckles' Laugh-a-Minute Pet Emporium was made with a lighter tread as I prepared to take my custom elsewhere. I brought the subject up with his assistant, a rather shellshocked girl who is never entirely on top of anything. " Look I've really appreciated this weekly order you've done " I began with as much sincerity as I could muster, "But I've found a firm that will deliver, and lugging this stuff to the carpark every week is no joke, so....."
At this moment Charlie himself erupted from behind the counter, where presumably he had been crouching to avoid me, much to the alarm of myself and 'Chelle Shock who ran to the back of the shop and hid behind the squeaky toys. "Of course we can deliver," he snarled, "You only had to ask!" I tried to point out that I did ask but he was having none of it, "I dont know who told you we couldnt deliver!" he ranted as I wrote my address down, I decided that it wasnt worth arguing and left, with the assurance that my delivery would be with me that same afternoon, and a small sad squeak from the back.
This is more like it, I thought, customer service at last! Keen to continue this arrangement I buzz the delivery van  through the farm gates on the first ring and run outside to guide him through to the courtyard. And run straight into a cloud of angry wasps which decide to take up residence in my hair. So instead of the good impression I was hoping to present, I treat him to the spectacle of The First Mrs Rochester raging around in front of his van, clawing at her head and swearing like Gordon Ramsey's plumber.
It really isnt fair.