Fleeced

I know that the etiquette of blogland dictates that I should not swear on my blog so i will restrain myself. But you should know that I am swearing to myself as I write this. I'm so cross I could spit.

I went to see Morris & Sons today. Neither he nor his sons were there. Instead I spoke to a succession of women, each of whom told me the same thing. They don't accept the return of books. Period. Something about past experiences with customers photocopying the books and returning them. And they could only accept the yarn cutter (the cheapest item) for a store credit. I countered that I am here on holiday and if I wanted to cart paper around with me, I would have kept the book, and that I could make no use of the store credit because I live on the other side of the world. "Oh but we can ship to anywhere" I was told. Doubtless at great expense. At that point I was feeling so peevish I said that I wanted to return the wool. No problem. They could give me a store credit. We went round like that a few times until I accepted the futility of arguing with the inflexible gatekeepers of this inflexible policy. So I left in a huff.

Now I am cross beyond imagining. It's useless to tell me that the return policy was on the receipt. And that I shouldn't have been so profligate to begin with. I know all that. And yes, I am cross with myself as well as Morris & Co. And tomorrow I will get on with it and open the book and chunter a bit while I figure out how to do ripple. But just for now allow me to wander around muttering to myself about the injustice of it all.

A pox on Mr. Morris. And his sons. Bah. Humbug.

C.