Mostly, I shall maintain a dignified/tactful silence in this entry. However, in a quick sprint to the post office this morning, carefully timed to avoid both the school-run mummies and the e-bay posters who might wish to harangue me, I ran into (not literally, fortunately) someone whom I only vaguely recognised and who clearly only vaguely recognised me.
"Are you the woman who looks after the advertisers in the village magazine?" she asked me, after a brief struggle to attract my attention, made harder by the fact that she couldn't remember my name either.
"No. You need to speak to..." I couldn't remember if it was Deirdre back at her post, or if Annie was doing it now, or if someone else had taken on the job. But it didn't matter, as my assailant hadn't listened to my reply.
"I'm getting really fed up, where my ad is going."
I didn't know who she was so knowing anything about her ad was clearly a step too far.
"I'm Fay, of 'Flowers by Fay'." The name rang the faintest of bells. "Every month for the last I can't remember how long, my advert has been next to a funeral director's in the magazine. The only business I'm getting is for funeral wreaths! It's depressing. Can't you put it next to a bridal ad or something?"
I briefly wondered what kind of business she'd get if her ad was next to an accountant's, or a garage mechanic's, but didn't say anything, other than suggest she get in touch with Deirdre. But really, in these times, she should probably be grateful to be getting any business at all! Quite apart from the general economic downturn, the last three funerals I've been to all requested no flowers and donations to charity.
Other than that, diplomatic silence. For now.
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