Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Twitter Wishes And A Lesson In Being Specific About Such Wishes..

 Last night watching 'Inside Claridges' I decided it would be rather nice to have my own butler, so I put my Christmas 'send me a butler' wish on twitter and thought no more of it. My previous 'all I want for Christmas is a faux fur ermine onesie' has yet to bear fruit so adding butler to the list didn't seem too greedy really. At the time. However, I fear twitter may have got slightly confused by these onerous demands..

So there I was this afternoon, happily minding my own business trying on my new 'comfiest bra ever' and admiring the 'tweet tweet' jumper that had just been delivered when there was a sound at the front door. Although I have a doorbell it doesn't work...it's one of those wireless models and we fell out after it went through a stage of 'ding donging' all the time and I refused to buy it more batteries. It took weeks to work out that there are four of us in this small part of my road who all have wireless doorbells and each time someone rang a wireless doorbell one went off. Just not usually the doorbell that had been rung. So, on hearing a sound at the door I assumed it was a delivery driver and rushed as fast as I could on wobbly legs to catch them.

I thought the delivery driver looked a bit neon hued through the glass panels as I approached. My second thought was that either it was a particularly large neon delivery driver or there was two of them. My third thought was "Oh shit, why are the police here, what have I done wrong this time?!" Admittedly thought three was poorly timed as it coincided with the police letting themselves in the front door and becoming very neon and very visible in my porch.

Having just managed to put on the comfiest bra ever they were greeted by my unshowered, pyjama clad, curls dragged through a hedge backwards, wobbly appearance, but at least my cleavage was looking fabulous. Hopefully that distracted from my complete confusion as to their visit and the unique aroma which drifts from my flat.

It turned out that the 'spaz alarm' had gone off again. This happened last week when I was trying to nap and the first I knew was when a lady from the spaz alarm company let herself in. For some reason I haven't been able to establish this time when it went off and I didn't answer the phone the alarm company sent the police round instead of one of their employees.

The nice policemen were very nice. Having realised that I wasn't on the floor they stayed long enough to ask if they could do anything for me as they were here anyway. In my somewhat puddled state I said that I couldn't let them in in case they told me off. They very graciously asked if that was because my flat was untidy and didn't pursue the subject of the funny smell. Being polite I of course offered them tea which they declined but asked if I wanted them to make me a cup then went on their way. Sweet really if a bit bewildering.

After the nice policemen had gone I thought I'd better phone the alarm company as although I'm a big fan of men in uniform, I'm also quite keen on having time to put on make up and get dressed before they visit. That was when I found the message from the police saying they were on their way round and to phone if I was ok. Oops.

I pushed the alarm button to contact them and eventually after much bleeping it connected. These spaz alarms are mostly popular with the elderly so all the company workers have that uniquely patronising tone of voice in everything they say. I suspect the elderly find it as irritating as I do, but the companies love it so much it must be a key requirement for getting one of these jobs which they test out at interview. "Now tell me Ms Jones, how much fake empathy can you get into 'hello, are you there' and can you make it sound like you're saying 'hello you moron'"

Yes, this is bitchy of me.

No, there is no requirement that disability make one nice

So the suitably patronising alarm man took pains to spell out to me that the alarm had gone off and I hadn't answered the phone. I managed to resist pointing out that I knew that which is why I was contacting them. I did mention that much as I appreciated the gift of two uniformed men I wasn't terribly keen on this new trend for people to let themselves into my flat when the first I knew was the door opening.

It all fell a bit flat on this bloke as he simply told me again that the alarm had gone off. Fortunately he couldn't see me rolling my eyes and flicking V signs at the bloody bleeping box.

I asked if perhaps someone could come round to take a look at the box and reduce the pressure on the overstretched emergency services. Apparently they have logged it. Which is what they said last week when this happened.

Alarm company man was very unhappy when I explained that I turn my phone off when its time to sleep. He was not swayed by my explanation that unless I turn the phone off I never get any sleep because the damn thing rings all the time being far more concerned with how they'd phone me. Nor was he particularly impressed with my polite suggestion they fix the box instead.

So, according to the bloody bleeping box man I am to push the bloody button everytime I want a sleep. Yes every day. And at night. Then phone them back when I'm awake again.

We're only on day 1 of this new 'phone us' scheme and I can already report it as a dismal failure. I am rebelling furiously at the idea I have to phone in and report my consciousness status. So I haven't.

And if the police come back? Well, at least its somewhere warm they can make themselves a cup of tea.

That's a contribution to society...right?

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