Fox in a Box

  I once had a message left on my answer phone informing me that my stairlift had arrived and could I ring to arrange a suitable date for it to be fitted. I did phone them back and explained that a; at the (then) ripe old age of 27, I didn't feel I was quite ready for a stairlift, and b; I lived in a ground floor maisonette. Nonetheless, I assured them that if the situation changed I wouldn't hesitate to call. When my dad heard about this he told me of another 'wrong number' tale.

  Dad once worked for a light engineering firm called 'Tamworth Gear and Spline'. A small outfit working from a unit on the local industrial estate - if you can remember Bill Maynard's 'The Gaffer' from the 80s then you've got a pretty good idea of the set up.

  About two or three times a day, the firm would be phoned up by people with a plum enquiring if this was the Atherstone Hunt. Whether the noise of grinding gears and whining machinery was similar to the sound of hounds baying for poor Mr Fox's blood I'm not sure, but the calls carried on frequently. One morning the phone rang and one of the workforce (a character called Alan) answered.

   'Ello, Tamworth Gear and Spline.'

   'Excuse me,' began a snooty lady in Princess Anne tones. 'Have I got through to the Atherstone Hunt?'

    Exasperated, Alan picked up an imaginary huntsmans horn, and gave a resounding blast down the phone.

  'DA! DA! DA! DA! DA! WE'LL CATCH THAT FOX AND STICK HIM IN A BOX!!

   There was a deathly silence - before the well groomed voice was heard once more.

   'I presume then that I have the wrong number?'