It had come as something of a surprise to me when Mrs S agreed that I should be allowed to select the laminate flooring to be used in the upstairs bedroom of our French getaway cottage. She had indicated the sort of pattern she preferred so I was not given an entirely free rein, but this was nonetheless a heady responsibility. Chris and I toured the various suppliers and I spent an inordinate length of time dithering over the final selection. In the end I chose a pattern that looked vaguely like terra cotta tiles.
There was just one pack of the flooring on the shelf of the warehouse-like store so we took this to the enquiry desk to see if they had more in stock. I never did manage to work out what the woman already at the counter was complaining about, but it involved the assistant disappearing from the desk for up to three minutes at a time on several occasions. Eventually he managed to placate the woman – and promptly disappeared for a tea break.
When he did finally condescend to ask what I wanted, he disappeared again to see if there were any more packs in the stockroom, despite having a stock-control computer sitting on the desk. He returned to announce that they did have more. I told him I wanted another thirteen packs and he disappeared again.
On his return, he was delighted (so he said) to tell me that there were exactly that number of packs in stock.
‘Was I sure,’ he asked, ‘that I didn’t need fourteen or maybe fifteen more packs?’
I wondered for a moment what he would do and for how long he would disappear if I said I wanted fourteen or maybe fifteen more packs, but assured him that thirteen would suit me very nicely, whereupon he disappeared again. I assumed he had gone to get the thirteen packs, but he returned empty-handed to assure me that yes, they did have thirteen more packs in stock, and that if I was absolutely certain that was what I wanted, he would go and get them.
‘Yes!’ shouted Chris and I in unison, whereupon he disappeared yet again, but this time with a rather hurt look.
I was beginning to wonder if I had strayed by some mischance into the local madhouse and was fully expecting him to reappear without the flooring. Ten minutes went past, then eleven, and twelve. Still no sign of either the assistant or the laminate flooring and I was becoming more and more convinced that this was the local madhouse when he suddenly appeared from a completely different direction. He was pulling a trolley on which were exactly thirteen packs of laminate flooring. But I was taking no chances. Chris and I removed every one of those packs to make sure they were all the same pattern and were, as far as we could tell, undamaged.
The assistant cheerfully waved goodbye, saying that he hoped we would have a nice day or something equally inane, as we headed for the checkout.
Although the store was busy, there was only one checkout manned and we joined the lengthy queue. The cashier seemed to know as friends all the customers ahead of us and treated each of them to a lengthy discourse on the state of her cousin’s bunions, the plans for the forthcoming wedding of some other relative, and the problems her sister-in-law’s sister was having in her pregnancy.
When we reached the head of the queue, we discovered that the gangway was too narrow for the trolley. After some kerfuffle, it was agreed that the cashier would count the packs and ring them up on the till, after which I would remain to pay while Chris wheeled the trolley through another checkout with a wider gangway. He would then present the trolley to the cashier and she would count the packs again just to make sure we didn’t slip on an extra one or two. I couldn’t be bothered to tell her that there were no more in stock; it seemed easier just to agree.
Back at the house, we had unloaded half the laminate when it dawned on me that we had forgotten to buy the underlay. We got back in the car, but, not surprisingly, went to a different store this time.
This is the flooring we chose:
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