Irritant

OK's, here's a little bit of Night Shift inspired temper defecit. My kitchen is not my own at the moment, wall to wall stuff from my lounge which is still in chaos (thanks flooring guys; another gripe but I shan't bother here) and the telephone is stashed behind a couple of cupboards and has to be fought for when it rings (no I can't move it, limited battery life and cable length, don't start). So - it rings; might be flooring guys, I definately need to speak to them so a quick dash, a scrabble in between two heavy glass fronted cabinets, a leap, a stretch and the phone is grabbed to reveal....

Automated telemarketing.

Not even the decency of some damned script reader in Bangalore. A bloody machine. One step on from the bloody automated switchboards that curse the service industries (has anyone ever had to deal with the ones that actually make you SPEAK your answers? WHY??? What fuckwit ever thought that was a good idea?). Automated advertising. Whose bloody idea was that? What tiny percentage of the population is ever going to be anything other than incredibly pissed off recieving that rubbish? You dirty, dirty bastards. You swine. I hope when your deserved free market heart attack kicks in, 999 put you on hold to talk to a tape.