A deeply uninspiring experience with a man at the trailer shop

I had to take the trailer in at the crack of dawn this morning for a service. Ok I accept it, my bad for not using the correct terminology when pointing out that the (what I now know to be called) side arm light had snapped, and compounding the problem by making the erroneous assumption that said side arm light might have some indicator function. I accept it.

This does not, however, mean that the terminally arrogant coot who booked the trailer in had the right to assume that I was one step down on the evolutionary scale from a particularly giddish amoeboid which originates from a long line of catastrophically inbred organisms, famed for their knuckle-dragging qualities even among other amoeboids. It is just as well that I am a calm and pleasant person who is able, at times of great provocation, to eschew the need to don a pair of hobnailed boots and jump up and down the heads of those people who can be so breathtakingly insulting as to feel the urge to point out, and I quote, "the indicators are the orange lights on the back of the trailer that flash on and off and tell other road users when you are turning left or right".

In fact, my only moderately wavering levels of calm and pleasant had less to do with an extreme effort of will not to issue forth a biting response than the knowledge that I was shortly going to leave the conveyance in which I routinely travel my precious horses in the hands of this affront to public decency dressed up in a boiler suit. I did however later relate the incident to everyone I have spoken with today, including the vet, and now I am telling you. My brain is still bouncing off the inside of my skull as the wrongness of it all gallumphs around in my head, causing permanent damage to my synapses.

On any other day this would have been enough, but there was more. I went to collect the trailer late this afternoon and there he was again, behind the counter. He affected not to recognise me (even though by any standards it is a small trailer place and not teeming with customers) and we went through the rigmarole of who I was and what I was doing there.
"Can I help you?" he said. On the face of it, an encouraging starter for ten.
"Yes," I replied in a carefully prepared neutral tone, "I've come to collect my trailer".
"Which trailer would that be?"
"The horse trailer", I said, smiling.
"Oh, the horsebox" he put in.
"No, it's definitely a trailer". A picky point, you might think, were it not for the fact that they did have horseboxes outside too, and I didn't want to risk making off in the wrong vehicle.
"Yes," he said, in a tone which could only be described as scathing, "the horsebox".

**sigh** The worst of it is, he's probably at home right now telling his wife about the dapid blonde that came into the shop today.