I was opening a new box of Dalton & Bassett’s Twemlows when the phone rang.
— Don’t eat those Twemlows!
— I said Don’t eat those Twemlows. Throw them out, right now!
— Who is this?
— Dalton, of Dalton & Bassett.
— Oh. How did you…?
— You got a bad box of Twemlows. It happens sometimes, and we’re real sorry. Throw them out. We’ll send you a new pack right away, by express courier. No charge, of course. And a hand-written apology, signed by Bassett himself.
— That’s real nice of you.
— We’re leaders in Customer Care, you know, here at Dalton & Bassett.
— Why don’t you sign it too?
— Why don’t you sign the apology too? Why just Bassett?
— Listen, punk! Don’t push me too far! I phoned ya, didn’t I? Did Bassett phone ya?
— Ooh, sorry.
— You want me to apologise twice? Maybe I should get down on my knees? Prostrate myself on the cobblestones of commerce? Is that what you want?
— Jeez, I just….
— Ok, go ahead and eat the goddam Twemlows. Stuff our face — see if I care! (Marcia, cancel that courier! And send a bunch of roses to Jack the Poisoner. In fact, give him a job. Tell him to see me tomorrow at nine.)
— I’m still here.
— Oh yeah? You got more complaints? Twemlows not sweet enough for ya? I spend my whole goddam life trying to please ungrateful bastards like you, and this is the thanks I get!
— Gotta go. Courier’s here.