A friend recently blogged about her experience of a workman coming to the house, and it reminded me of a few traumas of my own. Like babbling nervously – as if they care when I last cleaned or if I missed a bit.
I think one of the most memorable incidents was when we were having the loft and cavity walls insulated a few years ago. A nice chap came to the house and I put the kettle on while he set up his laptop. He took a sip of tea and said to me, ‘I need a power point.’
I gaped at him. Why on earth would a workman need a PowerPoint?
‘A power point?’ he repeated.
I continued staring while frantically trying to make sense of what he’d asked for.
Realising the lights were on but nobody was at home, he pointed to a row of power sockets. ‘Can I use the power point?’
‘Oh!’ The penny dropped. He just wanted to plug in his laptop. Doh!
Possibly the reason I confused power point with PowerPoint was that I had recently started a new job which involved me preparing lots of PowerPoints – though why I thought the insulation man should feel the need to start using one in my kitchen is beyond me.
Sadly, workmen don’t need to actually enter the house for me to embarrass myself.
A few days ago, I was letting rip at the top of my lungs a new song by Chris Barton (it’s a fab song with great words, perfect for exercising the old vocal cords):
Again I was in my kitchen, which is very close to the front door. Too close. There was a knock, a man stood outside, come to read the meter. While I figuratively curled up and died, he did a credible job of keeping a straight face while taking the meter readings.
And then there’s the whole dilemma of what to do when the window cleaner turns up… Silently creep from room to room so he doesn’t spot me? Or open the back door and cheerily greet him? Hmmm……