Concrete pencil

Now, consider this. Yesterday I was booking a B&B for the old man in west Wales, let’s call it the Old Railway Inn in Fishguard. I rang the number and spoke to a man called Mike, who took my booking, asked me for a deposit, made discreet enquiries about whether Pappa Concrete Pencil would be sharing a bad with his partner and so on.

I rang off, the deal done. I then remembered I hadn’t asked to whom I should make out the cheque (they haven’t heard about computers, it seems).

I phoned back, Mike’s wife answered. “Make it out to the Anglers Inn,” she said (we’ll say).
“The Anglers Inn? OK. And send it to the address on the website. South Street?”
“South Street? Oh no, Farmley Way.”
“Farmley Way? Erm. Where are you?”
“In Crawley, near Gatwick.”

So I checked their number and it was the most remarkable thing. I had misdialled the area code: 01293 instead of 01239. The rest of the number, I dialled the same, and it put me through to
ANOTHER GUEST HOUSE.

What kind of crazy odds is that? If you are a gambling-mad Wharf banker, or know one, email dan.bourke@wharf.co.uk and tell me what the odds would be. If you can’t work it out, just make it up – this is only journalism.

The feeling this has left me with, other than annoyance that the wrong number had cheaper rooms, was utter, utter deflation.

I can only deduce that I have had my long-odds win for this and the next four or five lifetimes. Was it a load of cash? Was it even a good run of numbers at the bingo?

Was it arse. It was a confused telephone conversation. And narrowly avoiding a failing to book a room. Which would have been a bit annoying. And that’s it.

So I’m giving up the Premium Bonds and the Lotto and the rest of it, because that sort of luck
doesn’t come along twice.

There is one good thing to come of it all, I suppose – it means I can walk around in lightning storms with a big metal stick shouting “come on, hit me now” and know I’ll be perfectly safe.