The mysterious case of the missing lawnmower

We went today to the shop where we bought the ride on lawnmower, because we want it to be delivered a day early.  The guy on the desk was not the same one who sold it to us and, when we entered the shop, he was having a long, semi-heated, discussion with a customer, lots of knitted eyebrows and stares and sighs and shrugs.  Eventually the other customer left (well he left in stages as French people often do; pick up your parcel, take a step back, put your change and receipt slowly into your wallet, check your wallet to ensure that said change and receipt are safely stowed away, say a provisional goodbye, open up another brief conversation, say goodbye again, turn from the counter, stop and check again with the sales assistant, and finally retreat slowly without any acknowledgement to the people you have kept waiting while you dithered about)  We approached the counter and asked about our mower.  The assistant sighed again and screwed his eyebrows into deeper contortions.  Papers were shuffled, French curses were muttered, the computer was consulted and, all the while, the eyebrows twisted and curled.  He went to look at some mowers in the showroom to check their serial numbers, he went into the back several times and consulted with a colleague, more muttered obscenities.  Meanwhile it had started to rain, one of those very heaving thundery showers that made rivers out of the car park.  But out he went, brave soul, and looked at the mowers standing outside getting thoroughly waterlogged.  Nope, still no mower with our serial number on it.  Eventually, soaked to the skin, eyebrows by now twisted up like corkscrews, he consulted a colleague in another store.  Yes, our mower was lurking in the other branch, yes it could be retrieved and delivered tomorrow.  And suddenly the sun came out, both outside and on the mower man's face.  His eyebrows descended to their normal resting position and he beamed a much relieved grin.  So did we.