I am not one of these people.
2 situations, both of which ought to have been simple.
1. broken boiler
Glen’s been away and the heating broke so I phoned for backup.
I was hoping for a Santa/Gandalf combo with a spanner; nice, unthreatening and with a bit of luck, deaf, (no need for awkward small talk). But the guy at the door was beardless and could hear perfectly.
So. I let him in and put the kettle on. Two minutes later and we’d covered MyItsCold, ParkingsANightmare and DoYouTakeMilk. He said no to a biscuit and I started to panic. What normal man turns down a chocolate digestive? He was clearly an assassin. In my head I could hear the theme tune to The Killing and I started backing down the hall.
Even though it was raining and the house was freezing I decided the safest move was to loiter in the porch and shout directions from there. Then I saw his van parked outside (with the company sticker in the window) and realised I was acting like a crazy lady. So I ran back into the kitchen and overcompensated by offered to make him a sandwich, babbling wildly about sustainable salmon and then raving about My Husband the Weightlifter and How In Love We Are – just in case he got the wrong idea.
When he’d gone I had to lie down for half an hour in a darkened room and think about sunsets.
The way I’d really like my hair cut is in silence. (I’ve only got a certain number of words and I don’t want to use them all up before my mum phones). Plus, my stylist is young and beautiful and it’s not her fault, but her questions make me feel old. I smile and nod, but inside I’m screaming:
I don’t have a boyfriend I have a husband. We don’t go clubbing we drink tea and go to bed early to SLEEP The last time I went on holiday it was Butlins with my parents I haven’t heard of the band you’re telling me about my head hurts from trying to hear you over the dryer I have no opinion on Rhianna and you’ve given me legohair when I asked for a trim.
Why is talking so difficult?