Complaining in an awfully British way

I knocked on the door and the home-owner opened it. 'You can't count on my vote unless you are giving away free Maltesers.'

I wasn't but I think I should write to that nice Mr Corbyn and suggest he amend the manifesto to include free Maltesers for all. It's a sure vote winner. People are fed up of Brexit and the state of the economy and the problems in the NHS but everyone loves free Maltesers.

I'd actually gone to the house to pick up my young friend. She was home from doctoring in the south west and we were going for coffee or rather hot chocolate and tea. I determined that I would not, under any circumstances, have cake. 

I had a Kinder Bueno blondie. 

I was a little late collecting her as I had to make an unexpected phone call. We are in the process of selling Uncle's apartment, a process that is taking even longer than is necessary I'm sure, because of the ineptness of the numerous solicitors involved. 

First thing this morning Husband wrote a stroppy email to our solicitor. I reviewed it before he sent it and added an extra bit of stroppiness, complaining about, amongst other things, that our solicitor always seems to be 'with a client' when Husband phones and never phones back. 

He quickly replied that he wasn't legally allowed to speak to Husband but would be happy to speak to me. Husband is dealing with all the (boring) business stuff so, although he's kept me up to date, I'm not really equipped to speak to a solicitor. But I did my best.

Before I came over all British. 

I really cannot complain. I hope the sternness sounded in my voice and that my abrupt, 'Thank you. Goodbye,' spoke volumes at the end. But for a start the solicitor sounded about eighteen. Or like he may have a new baby who is keeping him awake at nights. And he had loads of excuses, claiming that he had done things and that he would do others.

And he's on holiday next week ...