In true end-of-term spirit, everything in the house has decided to go on the blink. It's as if the house is saying, "You think you're run-down...? Try being me, with you lot rattling around inside me 24/7."
The family PC has given up the ghost (something I can no longer blame on the children leaving Sims permanently open, since we mercilessly murdered the whole Sims family weeks ago, consigning them to a cyber afterlife). A window is broken downstairs and it appears I shall have to sell all my wordly goods and/or sleep with the warty man from the glaziers to get it fixed this side of the New Year. And now the burglar alarm has broken. And not in a silent way.
We are woken at six thirty to the sounds of Daughter shouting, "There's a horrid beepy noise going on in the utility room and I can't make it stop!"
It transpires that none of us can make it stop, and so I have to call the security firm who grimly tell me it's "going to cost" me. Well, there's a surprise.
"And can you come and fix it this week?" I ask.
There's an ominous silence. "Hmmm," says the woman eventually. "Maybe. But I can't find any record of you on our system."
SO WHAT IF I'M NOT ON YOUR BLINKING SYSTEM? I want to shout. FOR GOODNESS SAKE, IT'S A RECESSION, WOMAN!!!! HERE I AM, WILLING TO THROW MONEY AT THIS. THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS TO COME AND FIX IT NOW!
She evidently senses a little ominousness in my own silence, because after a lot of teeth-sucking, she eventually agrees to send someone round.
When the someone arrives, he cannot work out where to park his car, or how to walk down the path to the house. He calls me on his mobile and I have to go out to meet him. He is hovering behind the garden gate, grinning sheepishly.
"Come in!" I call, waving cheerily.
He does not move.
I go up to the gate, open it and babble at him, "It's fine to leave your car there, just come on in."
He backs away nervously.
I run my tongue over my teeth. Nope, don't think there are the remains of breakfast lurking suspiciously. I look myself up and down. Yup, I remembered to get dressed this morning . . . I cannot work out what it is about me which is so off-putting. I smile encouragingly, "So, if you'd like to come this way," I try again, gesturing towards the house.
"Erm, have you got a dog?" the man says, stepping gingerly through the gate as though frightened it might be trip-wired.
"Yes," I say brightly. "She's very soppy--"
"What kind of dog?" he cuts in, shifting his gaze around, as if convinced I am hiding a dog on my person. "Only, I'm, er, very nervous of dogs," he adds, smiling shakily.
It is at this moment that I realise I had succombed to a stereotypical vision in my head of what a burglar alarm technician should be like. I had imagined a burly, no-nonsense type who could crush burglars in his bare hands. But no, it appears the species is softly spoken, nervy and terrified of Labradors.
"It's OK," I say. "You don't have to go anywhere near the dog. I'll keep her away from you."
We go in through the kitchen and the dog looks up dolefully. "I know, I know," her look of resignation clearly says, "I heard it all - he's scared of me. I'll stay here, don't worry." She sighs disappointedly and remains in her basket.
The man edges around the kitchen table and then makes a break for the utility room.
I leave him to pull and fuss at wires and tut a lot. It's OK, I think to myself, I've been forewarned: this is going to cost me.
After an hour or so of the alarm going off every five minutes, causing me to jump and utter unprintables every time, the man tells me it's fixed.
"So, shall I write you a cheque today, or should I wait for an invoice?" I ask.
The man immediately shuffles away from me.
That's funny, I think. I'm sure I just offered to pay him, not eat him alive.
"N-no," he says, waving a hand at me. "Don't give me a cheque. I don't like handling the money side of things, in case customers want to strangle me when they find out how much they owe."
"OK," I laugh.
He doesn't join in.
I escort him off the premises, making sure my soppy pooch gets not so much as a sniff of his trousers. The man is last seen doing a handbrake turn out of our drive, an expression of horror on his face, as though the very Hounds of Hell were on his tail.
The family PC has given up the ghost (something I can no longer blame on the children leaving Sims permanently open, since we mercilessly murdered the whole Sims family weeks ago, consigning them to a cyber afterlife). A window is broken downstairs and it appears I shall have to sell all my wordly goods and/or sleep with the warty man from the glaziers to get it fixed this side of the New Year. And now the burglar alarm has broken. And not in a silent way.
We are woken at six thirty to the sounds of Daughter shouting, "There's a horrid beepy noise going on in the utility room and I can't make it stop!"
It transpires that none of us can make it stop, and so I have to call the security firm who grimly tell me it's "going to cost" me. Well, there's a surprise.
"And can you come and fix it this week?" I ask.
There's an ominous silence. "Hmmm," says the woman eventually. "Maybe. But I can't find any record of you on our system."
SO WHAT IF I'M NOT ON YOUR BLINKING SYSTEM? I want to shout. FOR GOODNESS SAKE, IT'S A RECESSION, WOMAN!!!! HERE I AM, WILLING TO THROW MONEY AT THIS. THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS TO COME AND FIX IT NOW!
She evidently senses a little ominousness in my own silence, because after a lot of teeth-sucking, she eventually agrees to send someone round.
When the someone arrives, he cannot work out where to park his car, or how to walk down the path to the house. He calls me on his mobile and I have to go out to meet him. He is hovering behind the garden gate, grinning sheepishly.
"Come in!" I call, waving cheerily.
He does not move.
I go up to the gate, open it and babble at him, "It's fine to leave your car there, just come on in."
He backs away nervously.
I run my tongue over my teeth. Nope, don't think there are the remains of breakfast lurking suspiciously. I look myself up and down. Yup, I remembered to get dressed this morning . . . I cannot work out what it is about me which is so off-putting. I smile encouragingly, "So, if you'd like to come this way," I try again, gesturing towards the house.
"Erm, have you got a dog?" the man says, stepping gingerly through the gate as though frightened it might be trip-wired.
"Yes," I say brightly. "She's very soppy--"
"What kind of dog?" he cuts in, shifting his gaze around, as if convinced I am hiding a dog on my person. "Only, I'm, er, very nervous of dogs," he adds, smiling shakily.
It is at this moment that I realise I had succombed to a stereotypical vision in my head of what a burglar alarm technician should be like. I had imagined a burly, no-nonsense type who could crush burglars in his bare hands. But no, it appears the species is softly spoken, nervy and terrified of Labradors.
"It's OK," I say. "You don't have to go anywhere near the dog. I'll keep her away from you."
We go in through the kitchen and the dog looks up dolefully. "I know, I know," her look of resignation clearly says, "I heard it all - he's scared of me. I'll stay here, don't worry." She sighs disappointedly and remains in her basket.
The man edges around the kitchen table and then makes a break for the utility room.
I leave him to pull and fuss at wires and tut a lot. It's OK, I think to myself, I've been forewarned: this is going to cost me.
After an hour or so of the alarm going off every five minutes, causing me to jump and utter unprintables every time, the man tells me it's fixed.
"So, shall I write you a cheque today, or should I wait for an invoice?" I ask.
The man immediately shuffles away from me.
That's funny, I think. I'm sure I just offered to pay him, not eat him alive.
"N-no," he says, waving a hand at me. "Don't give me a cheque. I don't like handling the money side of things, in case customers want to strangle me when they find out how much they owe."
"OK," I laugh.
He doesn't join in.
I escort him off the premises, making sure my soppy pooch gets not so much as a sniff of his trousers. The man is last seen doing a handbrake turn out of our drive, an expression of horror on his face, as though the very Hounds of Hell were on his tail.
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