Today
Cold callers, whether they are selling double-glazing or trying to persuade you that you unwittingly bought PPI against an unspecified loan and they are here to help you, like to time their calls just when you've finished your day's work and are settling down with a cuppa and "pointless" on TV.
This is what happened yesterday - the phone went at about five-fifteen. "It's for you", said Paul, handing over the phone.
A chappie with an unidentifiable Northern accent started up his spiel: "It's nothing to worry about, my love," he began "I'm calling from a public safety company; not trying to sell anything." "Was I expecting this call?" I asked, suspiciously "Which public safety company?" "Well, my love, we're just a public safety company and what it is, my love..." continued the caller. "Do I know you?" I countered. "Well, you see, my love...". "I wish you'd stop calling me "your love", I said "I am not your love and very unlikely ever to be so." "And I'll stop this conversation," was the tetchy response.
Now, I understand that these people are just trying to earn a paltry living selling unsaleable products, but I resent being addressed in a patronising and, dare I say it, covertly misogynistic, way by a complete stranger. What is wrong with "Mrs Barrett"?
In My Day
It was late 1989 and we decided that 7 Mead Close urgently needed decorating and recarpeting. The floors were bare and the furniture piled up an an unusable way. The new carpet was ordered, the delivery date whizzed closer and closer and we were still not finished. Work was interrupted for our annual Christmas Eastbourne visits, thus further reducing the available time.
Add to this that we hate decorating and aren't good at it, and you will understand that tempers were a little fractious. While Paul attempted to paint the artexed ceiling over the stairwell I started to varnish the banister rails. The doorbell rang.
I went to open it and was confronted by a very young door-to-door salesman. He looked about seventeen and his supervisor appeared to be in a car parked in the Close. Clutching the pot of varnish I looked grimly at this young man.
He twitched nervously, looked anxiously over his shoulder at the supervisor and decided he'd better get started. "Hello, my love..." He got no further. "I am not your love; how dare you address me in that way when you have never met me? Show some respect..." I went on in this vein for a time while he looked as if he was about to be engulfed in flames.
Eventually he shuffled off and I shut the door firmly. I stomped back up the uncarpeted stairs in my socks and grasped the paint brush. In my fury, I missed my footing and slipped down the stairs, narrowly missing the glazed front door. (Becky always says that she saved me from serious injury by catching me before I went through the glass.)
The pot of varnish flew through the air, describing an elegant arc, and came to rest upside-down on the floor, having managed to miss the three-piece suite. And I threw a genuine tantrum and refused to pick up a paintbrush again.
I love it when my friends and family use endearments, but when it comes to strangers I like to set my own terms.
