It's a real painin the neck, butit's not whiplash
A young man keeps Âcalling to tell me that I have had an accident and that I have an injury. At least, I think that's what he's saying. No offence intended, but he has an accent thicker than school glue, which, just as an aside, the event organiser for the Tory party Âconference might want to think about Âinvesting in, since they seem to have stuck up their slogan with fuzzy felt letters.
Anyway, young Darren keeps insisting I had a bump in my car, although I realised by his third attempt that Darren was actually a series of different young men, but all with the same accent. They may have a training camp somewhere to drill Scouse into them. I used to think the RAF did that, since all their pilots sounded the same. Well, they did in black-and-white war movies, at any rate.
I digress. Young Darren has just called again to say that my car was in a collision. It wasn’t. I asked him my car registration. He says he’s not allowed to tell me. Data protection, he says. Not actually knowing, I suspect.
You must remember, this is the new shiny red car we are talking about, or as she is known, Esmarelda. I love that car and chatter to her regularly, and pat her like a big pet. I would know if she had hit something. Indeed, she did, once – it was a deer, but we got over that. Well, not the deer, obviously.
This time I said yes. I think there was an accident. Darren caught the scent of prey. You must have sustained an injury, he said. Possibly whiplash? No, I said, it was concussion. Darren became positively effusive in his concern. My husband doesn’t even get that anxious over my health.
What symptoms have I been left with? Short term memory loss, I said. That’s why you don’t remember the accident. he said. That’s right, I said. Who are you, I said? I’m Darren from the company that’s going to get you compensation for your accident, he said. What accident, I said? The one you had, he said. The one where I got short term memory loss, I said. Yes, he said. Who are you? I said.
I’ll be back (on the phone soon)
Reader, I should not be proud of myself, but I managed to keep this panto going for nearly seven minutes.
I know he’s just doing his job, and I feel for him, but that silly game was my vengeance for my mother being called five times in the space of as many hours by Darren and his little chums.
Now, my mum is in her late 70s and in good health, but her hip was replaced a few years back, which she thinks makes her a cyborg. It doesn’t. Terminator granny is not as fleet of foot as she thinks she is. Like most folks of her generation, when the phone rings, it must be answered. It might be Child 1, Child 2 or Child 3, a trans-Atlantic caller or worse, bad news, and so she makes that dash to get that call, regardless of the fact that the days when she could pivot on a shilling without fear of falling are long gone.
The calls are a pest but what she hates even more is the fact that these calls make her rude. She’s not alone. Her generation was not raised to be snappish in person or on the phone.
They don’t like to say no, or hang up abruptly, or even say go away. It genuinely upsets some older people.
So, bring it on Darren and co. I’m working up my next script for your call even as we speak.
Beautiful new bridge makes us high-fliers
Hurrah, first trip across the new bridge, and it’s lovely, but I miss the signature sound of the old bridge, that ‘baa-doof’ as you hit the expanders on the road, and that satisfying thunkety-thunk beneath the wheels.
One rather nice feature is that clever clogs sat-nav has not yet caught up with Scotland’s achievement, so if you are tracking your car on a screen, there is an immensely exciting moment when your car appears to be flying over the Forth to Fife.
Be careful when landing. You don’t want concussion and a short-term memory injury. Darren will call.
My No 10 invite a cold comfort
Well, good heavens, what’s this? An invite to No 10 Downing Street for me? Ah, she must be lonely, poor Treeza.
She’s like the second last person trapped in the Big Brother house, with only Boris Johnson for company. And she’s got a cold by the sound of it. I’ll take some Fisherman’s Friends.
She asked me once before, and I couldn’t manage. I hear she cancelled the order for the Greggs steak bake and called a snap election.
Best go. Can’t handle another bunch of rosette-sporters cluttering up the doorstep just before Christmas.