You need a trick to get rid of them.
Try picking a hefty rubber glove up as you open the door, and say 'Busy, sorry, fixing the toilet!' and wave the glove in their faces.

They run away backwards. Seen it done.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Tue 1 Jun 2010, 10:29, 1 reply)

Actually Joe Scaramanga and I have a good story like that.
This is entirely true: we shared a batchelor pad together, in which the only part of the floor that was clear of ashtrays, beer cans, CDs or videos was the path from each of our bedrooms to the kitchen and to the toilet. We decided to blitz the place one summer's day, and as such were stripped to the waist. Joe was cleaning the oven.

A door-to-door salesman called, I answered, and halfway through his speil he packed it in, saying "OK I'll er ... I'll just go then ... er ... " and I heard a voice behind me say "You alright mate? What's up?" and turned to see Joe there, topless (as was I), his hands encased in marigold gloves which were covered in brown goo.

I'd like to think the salesman still dines out on this story too.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 1 Jun 2010, 10:39, closed)