Home Is Where The Appointment Is

(The doorbell to my home rings. I answer the door to find a man in a suit with a briefcase on the doorstep. He tries to push past me.)

Me: “Can I help you?”

Man: “I’m here for my appointment.” *tries to push past me again*

Me: “You’ve got the wrong place. This is my house.”

Man: “I’m here for my appointment.” *tries to push past me once more*

Me: *physically pushing him out of the door* “This is MY HOUSE. You’ve got the WRONG address.”

Man: “But I’m here for my appointment.”

Me: “…”

Man: “Let me in. I’m here for my appointment.”

Me: “This is my house. You’ve come to the wrong address.”

Man: “I’m here for my appointment.” *tries to push past me once again*

Me: “Look, why don’t you f*** off?” *goes to close door*

Man: *puts hand on door to stop it closing* “I’m here for MY APPOINTMENT.”

Me: “YOU’VE GOT THE WRONG ADDRESS!”

Man: “This is number 82. I’m here for my appointment.”

Me: “This is number 2. This is my house.”

Man: “Look, it says 82 on the door.” *he points to the number 2 on my door*

Me: “It says 2 because it’s number 2.”

Man: “The 8 has fallen off. I’m here for my appointment.”

Me: “Has it also fallen off the gate and the bins and everywhere else? THIS IS NUMBER 2.”

Man: “But where am I supposed to go for my appointment?”

Me: “Do I look like I give a f***?” *slams door*

(He rang the doorbell a couple more times and then gave up and wandered off. I assume he eventually found number 82. Our street goes up to 37, so good luck to him!)