Dial A Ride Sally

I was working at home yesterday afternoon when the doorbell rang.

I was expecting a delivery of a new hoover (how tragic) and  opened the front door  ready to sign only to find a very elderly gentleman who was trembling with the effort of staying upright on his zimmer frame. I’d paid for a Vax Upright, but had got someone’s wobbly grandad instead.

A minibus was revving up at the bottom of my drive and a jolly voice called out to me from the driver’s seat, “Cheerio!”

I was wearing slipper socks, star print pyjama bottoms and a knee length Eyore tshirt. So shoot me – I had given my stylist the day off, alright?

In that ensemble I sprinted to the front of the minibus and did star jumps to stop the driving  a) running me over or b) disappearing down the road before I could tell him he’d made a mistake. The conversation went like this:

“He’s your Dad”

“No he isn’t”

“He definitely is. It says so here.”

A clipboard with my address  handwritten on it was produced as evidence.

Someone in some day care centre somewhere had dispatched the lovely old chap to the wrong daughter.

I sat my temporary Dad on the front garden wall and made him a cup of tea with four sugars in it,  accompanied by a pack of chocolate  digestives. The fella didn’t have a clue who I was, or  even who he was,  but announced after the biscuits that he’d  like to stay put.

The driver was getting angsty. This was his last drop off  of the day and he was fretting that he had to get home early because his wife was making cannelloni.

In desperation I asked the driver if he thought we looked alike. “Not at all, why would we?” he answered obviously baffled by my question.

“Not you and me. Me and him!”  We both looked at my ‘Dad’ who by now was leaning against a hedge and having a snooze. He was five foot nothing and Chinese. I am five foot everything and Irish.

It was Sally who  finally saved the day. She radioed over to say oops, she’d got the house number, the street and the postcode entirely wrong. And she didn’t even sound like she was blushing.

“Is Sally new to the job?” I asked the driver. “No. Why?” he replied.

It was like my own personal episode of Not Long Lost Families, all that was missing was Davina McCall crying.

The moral of this story is don’t wear pj’s on the day your new hoover is coming.





4 comments to Dial A Ride Sally

  • Glenda Willis

    Was his name Henry?

  • Glenda, Yes! And he has a sister called Hettie.

    Anna May x

  • Glenda Willis

    Did you know that they have a son called Little Henry?

    (Numatic Little Henry Toy Vacuum Cleaner by Casdon)

  • Fabulous 🙂 It reminded me of the time an old woman clambered into my car as I was parked on a quiet street, waiting for my children to come out of school. She insisted I was the taxi driver she’d booked to take her to Sainsbury’s, and only accepted I wasn’t when the actual driver turned up.