Quarter to nine, on a school day (so obviously Im screaming about P.E. kit and the like to my evidently newly-deaf offspring) and the door goes. So I open it, peanut butter smeared knife still in hand, and who should be stood there but the man from the council. Now, dont get me wrong, ordinarily Im usually thrilled to see them for a number of reasons:
1. Im a single mother and student and frankly, dont get out much. The company is always welcome.
2. They are usually calling to fix stuff. When I say fix, I actually mean delay the inevitable, cruddy crumblings of cheap, shoddy council fixtures and fittings. Neverless, in this aim at least, they are generally pretty successful. At least until the next visit.
3. Workmen are a useful ally when it comes to recycling that tin of Christmas biscuits left languishing in the larder, without filling up the bin.
So anyway, the man from the council, somewhat taken aback by the peanut butter or possibly the knife and the screaming, greets me with a cheery smile and well fingered clipboard (save the jokes please!). He explains that as they are in the next block of flats this morning is there any chance they can squeeze me in too (leave it!), to fit my mains smoke alarms? No problem I think, an hour or so and Ill have two spanky new smoke alarms and the imminent threat of death by nocturnal smoke inhalation will be banished forever. FOUR hours later, with not one, but THREE men from the council squeezed into my little flat and the place is a bloody bombsite. For reasons that still escape me, they saw fit to fiddle with my shower wiring, pull up the carpets and floorboards in both bedrooms, take a pair of bolt croppers to the light fitting in my bedroom, rip out three light switches and yank an entire panel wall off in my kitchen! Now, DIY expert I am not, but you can imagine my concern about the rapid turn of events. Man A, lets call him Malcolm (because that WAS his name) did his best to reassure me and as I busied myself in the kitchen, amidst the debris, obligingly making cups of tea. He regaled me with hilarious stories of how many times theyd found equally hilarious items and grubby knickers behind furniture and the like, in the course of their work. I had to admit, it was pretty funny as Man B (Pete) recalled the rampant rabbit covered in fluff that fell on Phil that time story and I was actually starting to forget the destruction and enjoy myself, when the horrible realisation struck. Oh fuck, where the hell had I flung my vibrator last night
The colour drained from my face as Man C (hereby known as Andy, to protect the innocent) yelled down the stairs about shifting the blanket box at the end of the bed, to reach a light fixture. The sound of it being pushed away from the bed seemed painfully slow and the silence from above bellowed down the stairs at Malcolm, Pete and myself. What seemed like hours later, Andy, whistling suspiciously chirpily trotted back downstairs, toolbox in his grubby fist and handed over the paperwork. All finished love, if youll just sign ere, ta. Oh, thank god, I thought, scribbling my name across the paper and waving them off at the door, thank BLOODY god!
I flicked the kettle on and bounded up the stairs two at a time, to admire my gleaming new fittings only the be greeted by a gleaming old fitting that I knew intimately, covered in fluff from down the back of the blanket box and stood proudly to attention, on the windowsill in the bedroom. Numbly, I picked up the offending glittery pink phallus between finger and thumb and took it into the bathroom for a scrub, mouthing the words no, no, no soundlessly to myself.
To make matters worse, as I did the 3pm school run, I noticed the same three council men in their van, having a tea break and had to put up the hood on my parka and shuffle past, looking at my feet and glowing a rather violent shade of scarlet, which if sold by Dulux would have a catchy name like humiliation vermillion or the like.
Needless to say, a week later and the sodding smoke alarm has developed a fault. I held off reporting the fault to the council on the off chance it would get better (the way electrical stuff does when youve called in a repairmen), but to no avail. So today, I went to Woolies and bought a new battery powered one and stuck that up instead. Frankly, at this early stage, the idea of having the man from the council back any time soon is a less attractive option than the peaceful death Ill get if the flat does burn down... at least I wont have to look Malcolm in the eye again. Just think, about know, some poor cow a few streets along is laughing her tits off at my expense, while unbeknown to her, Pete is probably busy upstairs sniffing her dirty knickers. I take comfort from that thought, I really, really do
Submitted by Sarah Martin
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