Once upon a time, there was a tired author, her Saint and the Labrador. They were rounding the corner from a long walk on a humid June day and were approaching their house. Dreams of lemonade and a morsel of dinner awaited them…
But, lo! What was this? A car parked in the street and the drivers are walking up the author’s driveway? With fliers, catalogues, papyrus rolls and fake promises printed with yesterday’s news? What treachery is this; what gall do these strangers have? Up they go to the door…up, up and away.
“Shall I tell them no solicitors?” the Saint asks, growing testy.
I think. I ponder. I waver a moment.
“Let’s just keep walking. They don’t know it’s us they’re trying to sell to.”
And so the merry party proceeded, pulling a fast one over the sales people who rung the doorbell to no avail and, alas, returned to their car empty handed. The spoils and promises of capitalism evaded once more.
The author has since ordered two new “No Solicitors” signs, to replace her old broken sign. She also plans to rig her doorbell to shock anyone who presses it.