Technically, I hadn’t spoken to him at all but I can see how he might have been offended. The thing I hate most about losing my voice is that I feel rude. Even when it’s coming back, as it is today, I still try not to speak much because it will disappear again like Willo-the-wisp. This leaves you with gestures and an odd croaked word, which when you are cross seem so much more rude and aggressive than I would have conveyed in a whole sentence.
With hindsight, I can see that our encounter was never going to go well. I should have known. A few weeks ago I had a call from a very nice sounding young lady who said they were a local company repairing vacuum cleaners and would I like mine serviced. Normally, I would get grumpy and say, “How have you got my number? I’m with the telephone preference service, you know,” which would be met with a click and the dial tone but that day I listened. You see, I confess that I’ve had my hoover for 15 years and have never even changed the filter (not being quite sure where it was) and I thought the price sounded good so I booked the appointment.
I was surprised that he felt he needed to ask me questions before he did the work.
“Are you aware that we are a totally independent company?” he asked with his pen poised over the tick box on the serious amount of paperwork he had with him. I should have just nodded but instead I croaked, “I’m not aware or unaware and I don’t see that it matters.”
“Can I just tick yes then?” he pleaded.
He asked me questions about hoovering that no human being should have to think about or divulge to a stranger. I just nodded, shrugged or shook my head, as seemed appropriate.
He made me hoover his bit of carpet and told me that I could feel it had no suction. To be honest, it felt like it did when I hoovered after the work.
Then he took it apart and dramatically shook some dust around the garden. When it was in pieces he called me back to look at it and took a picture to ‘add to my file.’ He explained that it needed new filters and a new roll bar because the brushes were a bit worn.
“This is a real beast of a machine. Are you aware of the EU rules?”
I shook my head.
“You see this machine has a 1400 watt motor and you are only allowed 700 Watts now, so if I were you, I’d have all the work done all day long. And while we’re talking can I just show you this?”
He thrust an insurance type repair contract into my hand without waiting for a nod and gave me the hard sell on how I needed this, “at only £7 a month. I would go for it all day long,” he grinned.
I told him that I would think about it, which seemed to upset him. He kept talking for long enough for me to mentally run through my shopping list and the whole of the periodic table.
“So, you say that parts are free. How long do I have to keep this contract?”
He realised what I was thinking.
“Oh no madam the machine has to be in full working order before you take out the contract. I suggest that you seriously talk to your husband about taking this out.”
I think I pulled a face. “Is there a husband? What I suggest you do is take out the contact but don’t replace the roller. Then after a month ring up and say, ‘My husband doesn’t normally do the hoovering but he did it yesterday and complained that he had to run over the dog three times before it got picked up.”” OK, so he didn’t say dog but I was too busy raising my eyebrows to listen properly.
I told him to just replace the filter and that I would think about everything else. He grumpily put the machine back together.
“Can I just show you something?” He said, taking a small handheld hoover out of a box, plugging it in and starting to hoover my stairs. I knew they looked a bit grubby but I wasn’t expecting this. After he had cleaned two steps he stopped to show me how much dirt he’d picked up.
“Well done. Would you like to do the rest?”
“I can do that if you want me to,” he said. I don’t think he got the joke. “What do you think of it?”
I told him that it was very good. I always find it wise to praise a man’s tools. Especially, as this chap seemed rather old fashioned in his thinking about who should use a vacuum.
He told me the price and asked me what I thought. I shrugged. He gave me a lower price. I shrugged again and croaked something about not looking to buy a new hoover as I’ve just had mine serviced. He told me how I should really consider it, as I have obviously never been cleaning my stairs properly and then suddenly changed tack.
“Well how do you do clean your upholstery?”
I pointed at my leather sofa and mimed wiping them down.
"The dog bedding?" I referred him to the blankets and covers I had just taken out of the washing machine.
“What about your mattress.”
“Don’t!” I squeaked, “Life’s too short.”
Now, I realise that everyone reading this will be recoiling in horror at my sluttishness but I don’t care. Life is too short for me to hoover my mattress regularly, although I have done it once or twice in a moment of madness.
“What,” He spluttered, “It’s basic cleanliness.” He then gave me a lecture on bed mites and what they live on.
After five minutes of this I'd had enough. If I had a voice I might have said, “Please stop now. I don’t know why you think insulting me is going to make me buy stuff I don’t want from you.” However, I just held up my hand put my finger to my lips and said, “Shhh. Stop.”
You can see why he was so upset. It must be a very effective sales technique and I’m only surprised I didn’t buy twelve hoovers I didn’t need.
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