SKY’S THE LIMIT

It was nine o'clock in the evening when I answered the knock and opened my front door to a man standing opposite me who introduced himself, ‘hello, I’m from Sky.’
‘I’ve not got a television,’ I said, ‘and I’m not interested.’
It was abrupt of me and I hoped I hadn’t hurt his feelings because I wouldn't like to be doing a job like his, knocking, at this time of night, on doors behind which unknown people lived.
‘If you’ve not got a television you won’t be interested in what we’re selling,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, I won’t try to sell you anything then,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
‘I wouldn’t want to waste your time trying,’ he said.
‘Or your time,’ I said.
The woman was with him when I answered the door and had walked off up the corridor when I’d said I wasn’t interested came back and put her hand on the arm of the man was talking to me.
‘Looks like I’ve got to go,’ he said.
‘It does, doesn’t it,’ I said.