Bathus Interruptus

I hate being disturbed when I'm in the bath!

Treeman came round again today to give me a quote for work on my Leaning Bower of Pither.
He had arranged to call at 4pm and so I decided I just had time for a bit of a soak in a hot bath before finding out how much it would cost to stop Nigella, my blue lawson fir, from toppling over onto my next door neighbour's pigeon loft.
I got in the bath at 1pm and kept my mobile phone on a chair alongside, firstly to chat idly with anyone who would listen and secondly, and most importantly, to keep an eye on the time which is displayed on the homescreen. It was 3pm when, having noticed that my gonads had all but disappeared, I decided to get out, dry off and get changed but just as I was shoehorning myself out all Hell broke loose!
The dogs went berserk and charged the front door, indicating that someone had been foolish enough to call at Pither Towers unannounced. I grabbed the nearest towel to hand (which turned out to be just a very large flannel!) and ran to the bedroom window to peer out and see who it was. It was only bloody Treeman, wasn't it!
Right, I thought, I'm going to give him an earful. He said 4pm and he calls round a bloody hour earlier. We didn't win two world wars by turning up early - although, come to think of it, the Americans won them by turning up late.
Anyway, still dripping wet and trying hard to cover my dangly bits and as much flesh as I could with the microtowel, I managed to herd the dogs into the kitchen and then open the door. Treeman was walking back to his van but I shouted to him to come to the side door and I would let him in.
"Bloody Hell mate," I began. "You said 4pm. I was in the ruddy bath, as you might just have gathered."
"It is 4pm," he said.
"'Tis not."
"'Tis so."
"'Tis not."
"'Tis too."
Just then my face fell, my sphincter clenched and my blood drained as a metaphorical lightbulb went on over my head. I squelched back into the kitchen to check the clock there - it was indeed 4pm.
AAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgghh!!!! The clocks, the fucking clocks!!! They have beaten me yet again. Every bloody year I think I've got it cracked and every bloody year I am beaten. I HADN'T PUT THE CLOCK ON MY MOBILE PHONE FORWARD BY AN HOUR LAST WEEKEND!! Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!!
My mobile is now yet another timepiece to add to the ever growing list of clocks which have to be altered around British Summer Time and I really don't think I can cope. I shall stick at Pither Time and sod the world.
Anyway, the upshot of Treeman's visit is that I can either kiss goodbye to Nigella once and for all for the price a villa in Marbella or I can have her lopped in half for £260 plus VAT. A lopping it will have to be, although I find that hard to take as viewers of the real Nigella will know - her top half is the best half.