She sighed deeply and wondered if this would ever stop. This was the third time this afternoon that Andrea’s husband, Thomas, had phoned the waste management company and let them have it.
“Why was my trash taken away late last Wednesday? You call yourself a garbologist?”
“Do you think you can take the trash away when you like? Wednesday morning is the time stipulated that the trash will be picked up at the gate. I don’t care if it was Christmas Day – it was Wednesday.”
“The guy driving the trash truck needs a bomb under him. I wished him good morning and he grunted at me like I was a.. a pig... Where’s the customer service?”
“Don’t you think, dear,” suggested Andrea to Thomas once he had put the phone down, “don’t you think you could just let these people get on with their job? They seem to do it reliably enough.”
“Rubbish,” said Thomas. “I want better service than that.”
When Thomas dialled the number a fourth time, Andrea had had enough.
“I’m going into town,” she said, “to the library. I shall return once all this nonsense is over.”
“You don’t understand,” said Thomas.
Andrea drove into town. What a trial the trash collection company saga had become. She sighed deeply and wondered if this would ever stop. It had been going on ever since her husband had bought the waste management company almost a month ago.