|An idea of what my sister looks like with her chainsaw|
Please don't ask why a septuagenarian has need of a chainsaw but I will just say she is not your average septuagenarian. She's fitter than the average 30-year-old man, is a champion triathlete and takes part in Ironman events. I'd like to say she's does a bit of timber-felling on the side, but I would be lying. She's pretty nifty with a chainsaw but gets her son to do all the heavy duty tree maintenance she finds necessary at her house with the biggish garden.
Anyway, her chainsaw ground to a halt and, in need of some light lumber-jacking, she took it to be repaired at a local firm. Where is stayed. And stayed. And stayed. Finally, after several weeks of phone calls she was told they couldn't repair it.
Off she set in her North Devon Tri tracksuit (I am surmising that was what she was wearing - it seems permanently welded to her body; it could have been a twin-set and pearls for all I know) to collect it.
They returned the chainsaw - along with a bill for £95. NINETY-FIVE POUNDS! Had they sprayed it with gold paint while they hung on to it for nine weeks, or inserted a few diamonds into the chain? No, it was still a broken-down chainsaw. It was deceased. It was an ex-chainsaw. It was no more. It had expired and gone to meet its maker (possibly Husqvarna or it may have been Stihl).
I appreciate that they had to pay for the labour of someone looking at the darn thing, but even so. She complained and they slashed the bill.
This led me to my cunning wheeze for a new business. The Dearly Beloved and I are starting a firm called United Unrepairs. You bring us all your broken down machinery. We don't repair it and charge you £95. Inspired, huh?
I reckon we're on to a winner.