At the Weekend

I've been watching a trio of Chinese people wending their way down the street, knocking on doors, none have been opened to them. Round their necks are some kind of labels; perhaps like Paddington Bear's they say, 'Please look after these people,' but more likely they are selling something, some new take on God or remotely-accessed Chinese babies or a new gas supplier.

Coming up the street is a Chinese couple, as they get closer I can see that what I took to be a Zimmer frame with empty plastic bags ballooning as they walk, is in fact a wire basket on a pushchair frame, and they are distributing local papers.
All trying to make a crust by bothering others.

My supplier rang me up on Thursday.
In Toronto there has been snow.
We chatted on the firm's dollar.
'I'm envious of the snow,' I said,
'We were taken by surprise,' she said, 'no-one was quite prepared. It's gone now.' But still, they had it. They were able to open the curtains in the morning and witness the miracle.
We got down to business.

'Are you interested in another Swiss?' she asked,
'Oh yes, the others were great. Any chance of French Swiss?'
'Probably not, mostly we get German,'
'German Swiss are fantastic, just, you know, with the French you've got the extra function,'
'I'll look into it,'
'The Japanese were phenomenal,'
'I'm glad, we felt bad about the one Parisian, we had a meeting...'
'Don't give it another thought.'

The Chinese trio are coming up the street now, maybe they're about to pounce. Maybe today I only speak French, or German, so much sport to be had at the weekend.
But I'll be at work in an hour.
Yes, even at the weekend.