The Ryno Pen

(Sign inspired by Herself.)

I guess I mentioned back in Part 1 that the Jah Wobbles disturbed Herself on Saturday morning, while I was way down the back, out of earshot. Miss Constance J Woodle gave a fine account of herself: her Rabid Doberman soundalike trick is awesome.

By the time I got to the house, they had received a curt “No. Go away!” through the cheese-grater screen door, and were gone up the street to pester others. Herself said our unwelcome callers were an old man and a young boy.

I’d missed by about five minutes: still, I figured the little white car across the road belonged to God’s Little Knock-Knock Jokes, as the business there wasn’t open. I made a coffee and waited my moment.

Sure enough, in about twenty minutes the bedraggled foursome made their way back to the car, got in and sat down, no doubt to post-mortem Exercises In Futility, Episode #5645. Patting my Thug Beanie over the grizzled locks, your humble bloggist sauntered over to the car.

They were facing away from me: of course I couldn’t resist the temptation to knock on the driver’s door. The old geezer driving was wearing a Victor Meldrew flat-cap, but when he turned to face me, (as far as face-blindness permits) I was immediately impressed by the resemblance to the late Erik Chitty. (Come to think of it, old Erik was born in 1907: this could well have been his twin.)

“Good morning,” said I, being as cheery and polite as possible, and trying my best not to look like a scary knuckle-dragging creature of Satan. “I thought I’d knock on your door for a change.”

Old Chappie asks what he can do for me. I asked him if our address was on the Do Not Visit list, knowing full well it WAS. It seemed the Ancient Git had a bit of the Henry Crun about him too.
Old Guy: “You want to be taken off the list so we can talk to you? Oh, let me shake your hand.”
(Creakily unfolds himself out of car and does so.)

Me: “No, I don’t think you understand. My address is on your list, and you’ve still turned up and tried to proselytise my wife. I find your action offensive,and I want you to make very sure my address is listed DO NOT CALL. Is that clear?”

“Oh,” squawked the Faithful Fossil. “Sometimes we’re talking to each other and we miss a marking and don’t see where we’re going……” (trails off into mumble of self-justifying crap as I walk back to my place.)

[Fast-forward to this morning.]

I wasn’t going to let it pass. What with all the dithering, it was just possible that Moses’ Elder Brother might turn up again. Anyhow, if his record-keeping was up there with his reading and his interpretation of spoken English, it was pretty damn likely I was in for more Saturday Morning Cartoon Characters. Time to escalate the call a level…

“Hello, this is Rodney NotRealName’s house.”

I asked the lady who answered if that was the Kingdom Hall for Rynoville.

“No, this is a private number.”

Hmm. I better get it exactly right: this cagey old chook must have studied under the Jesuits or something…
“Is this the contact number for the Jehovah’s Witnesses in Rynoville?”

“Yes, that is Rodney NotRealName. He is not here now.”

“Are you able to write a message for Rodney NotRealName, and make certain he gets it?”

She finally admitted that she was.

So, I went over the incident of Saturday… geez, you’ve got to love an apologist:

First, Mrs Rodney admitted that the JayWobblies were about to hold a large gathering in our area, so they were visiting every house “just in case people had moved or changed their minds or something”.
Secondly, when I mentioned the Ancient Missioner, and suggested he might be a little too dithery to let out in charge of a pair, she not only told me the fossil was 85 years old….

SHE
TOLD
ME
HIS
ENTIRE
FUCKING
NAME.

Neither the first or the last name are all that uncommon, and here I am, an unknown person and a hostile caller (albeit a smooth purveyor of crisp RP enunciation) to boot, and she spills personal info!

I’m flabbergasted. Way to go, stupid woman: first break it to me that your Evil Minions are disregarding the No Go list, and then tell me how (if I was that nasty) I could find Old Methuselah through the white pages and go knock on his door, or far worse.

Gentle Readers, both of you are going to have to wait a while for the story of Why The Ryno Spends Sundays At Home. That carpenter has done me no harm, but I’ve had more than enough of his fanclub for now.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, July 31st, 2007 at 12:19 am and is filed under Humour, people stuff, religion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.