Their faces fell when the merchandise and stationary was revealed in the shipping crates. One by one, the members of the lawn society looked amongst each other, and at the name on the various things they had ordered.
It was Mr Jefferey, society chair, who spoke first. “There must be some kind of mistake! We’re the Sons of the Soil, we decided on that!”
“I’m sure that’s what the form said when I put it in the pile to be sent off by Mr Richies.” Mr Beeston, society secretary, spoke up.
“Maybe one of the draft sheets was included, and they got this from that brainstorming session we had?” Mr Richies replied.
“In any case,” the elderly Mr Tong sighed, “it seems a mistake has been made, and we will have to delay on the regional society event until this unfortunate turn of events has been rectified.”
“Agreed.” Mr Jefferey nodded. “We are the Sons of the Soil, and definitely not the Sons of the Sod.”