Owing to my last post I had become increasingly aware of a change coming over me, one that was quite shocking and completley against my entire nature…
I was becoming sensible.
It had started with the flower arranging evenings, then planning my Christmas shopping well in advance, then checking my car’s levels of screenwash at regular intervals, and I had even been taking Neil’s coat on outings in case he felt cold.
The events of yesterday however came as a reassuring reminder that, whereas I have many additional responsibilities these days (although some of the unecessarily self imposed), I still have an overwhelming ability for the ridiculous which despite still taking me by surprise, nevertheless jollies life along.
The first instance occurred when returning a work call to a Norweigen lady ‘Ottie Dottie’, an excellent name that I am now considering for my first born (although a seminar given by Dushy Large has also made that a contender). On phoning Ottie I was put through to a generic voice messaging system, immediately sending me into a panic for I am not at ease with such technology and very much aware of how much I sound like a 5 year old child on a tape recording. I tried my best to mentally prepare what to say and in what order, but all too quickly the ‘beep’ was upon me and my mind blanked…
“This is a message for Socky Wocky”…
Realising my mistake I laughed nervously, but one of those sort of embarrassing laughs that sounds like a congested farm animal, so I cupped my hand over my mouth to try and stifle the truly hideous noise. Sat in genuine shock, I didn’t really know what to do to recover the situation, so I hung on the line hoping to be offered the opportunity to re-record my message, but following the second ‘beep’, no such olive branch presented itself.
A shameful moment came over me as I replaced the phone’s reciever into it’s worn cradle, although at the same time I was a little relieved I had not got so far as to mention who I was and what institution I was representing. Several practices in the kitchen and a cup of tea later I was composed enough to phone Ottie back, but this time wrote my message down beforehand and read it off like a script.
I do hope the lady has luck with her dormer window.
My second oddity of the day came as I dropped my feather and down duvet into the dry cleaners for its bi-annual dousing. The weather that morning had appeared inclement and so not wishing to be caught in a passing shower with my beloved bedding, I had wrapped it up carefully in several bin bags, neatly taping them at the joins, and had arranged the ties in such a way as to make a carrying loop.
On arrival at the dry cleaners I pushed open the door to find the shop assistant nowhere in sight, so made my way towards the counter to push the bell for attention. On doing so however, my loafer caught itself in the turn-up of my trouser leg and I tripped, hitting my knee on an incidental shelf carrying shoe cleaning kits, and I ended up slumped across the counter, my midriff balancing on its edge. Furthermore in the midst of this impressive stunt, I had let go of my duvet bundle, which due to its slippery casing had shot out of my hands, launched itself across the counter onto the floor, and had slid its way to the back of the room picking up speed as it hit the lino. Meanwhile, the shop assistant arrived, stepping over my duvet parcel (still in motion) and made his way towards me.
“Can I help”? he gestured, as I brushed myself down and sought to right the heavily laden shop display I had almost taken down with me.
“Yes please, I would like to have my duvet dry cleaned”.
“No problem madam, where is the item in question?”
“Actually (pointing), its over there…”
A confused look and a long explanation followed, but eventually I paid my £9.99, apologised for upsetting his suede buffing and leather cream unit and left.
Maybe next time I will try the ‘Persil Dry Clean’ shop down the road. It’s about 200 yards extra to walk, but I know it’s counter is nearer the entrance and with luck they won’t know about my amazing aptitude to embarrass myself.
Unless of course I have to ring them.