A message arrived this morning addressing me as “friend” and telling me that the sender had “learned your name from the website.” The website was not specified, for the fame of Comber has, thanks to the Internet, spread worldwide, but I was already doubtful about the use of the word friend.
I blame Facebook, which I hold responsible for the recent devaluation of friendship. As the founder of antisocial notworking, I raise an eyebrow or two whenever anyone claims to have a friend on the basis of a mere key press. I was not so intolerant, however, as to delete the email without reading on, and I was glad I did so, for the rest of the message appeared to hold out real (if somewhat slim) hope that its sender and I might develop a solid relationship and true friendship in time. For she went on to explain that she represented a trading company in Hong Kong “exporting fabric with good quality and low quotation.”
She went on to say: “We believe that you can rely on us as we provide you quite satisfactory service and products with best quality in the world,” and she asked me to “send us your enquiry with your specific needs.” Overcome by this eloquence and politeness, I replied at once: I’m intrigued by your fabrics from China, And the service you say you can bring, I feel certain there’s no fabric finer, Than your fresh-woven cloth from Beijing. You assert there’s no lower quotation, Than the ones you’ve supplied for 10 years, From the world’s most inscrutable nation, I can order from you without fears.
You describe “satisfactory service”, While attaching the adjective “quite.” Which causes some worry, It’s done in a hurry, And sometimes may not be quite right.
I’m mystified, though, why you chose me, Of all of the people on earth. There’s no-one in China who knows me, Who’d say that I suffer a dearth, Of fabrics, perhaps to upholster, Or even some suit-making cloth, My supplies though aren’t full, Of some suitable wool, To crochet another fine sloth. You ask me to send an enquiry, With my needs which you describe as “specific.”
I’ve looked, but there’s none in my diary, Not for fabric, however terrific. So I fear you’ll be most disappointed, If you’re hoping for business from me, Or praying to soon be anointed, As Comber’s sole licensee.
Perhaps of the world’s seven billion, You shouldn’t have written to me, Your fabrics from mauve to vermilion, Just wouldn’t look right, don’t you see? A Comber’s not oriental, and I wish this reply were more gentle, But I fear that we’ll never be friends.