Internet Shopping Encounter

I was an early adopter of online shopping, twenty years ago, but the software kept hanging up and saying “ring the help desk”.

Eventually I did just that but the technician was rude and patronising.  “You must be doing it wrong…”

I pointed out to him that I was likely to complain.

He asked my name.

I told him.

He asked my title.

I told him.

“Doctor?” He asked.  “A Medical Doctor?” sensing now that he could not so easily write me off as a silly little woman.

“No.  My doctorate is in Computer Science.”

A few minutes after the end of the phone call, I was just mentally composing my complaint, when my phone rang.  It was the helpdesk guy again. I hadn’t given him my phone number. (It was before I had a mobile.)

He had obviously given it some thought and was now very worried.  In his case, worry manifested as aggression.

“If you think that just because you’ve got some poncy qualification in computer science, you can complain about me….etc.”

Funnily enough, I don’t think I ever got round to complaining – life was busy then: that’s why I’d wanted to do an online shop!

But I also didn’t do an online shop again for more than ten years.

Now however, I use it regularly, chiefly to save my back.

Wonder what the guy on the help desk is doing now.  The only profession I can think of that celebrates disdain like his is waiter in a Parisian restaurant, and I’m not sure they take on nerdy Brits. 

Scaerobics

Aerobics terrify me. 

My limp excuse is that I was raised in the late seventies/early eighties when Olivia Newton John donned an eyewateringly tight electric blue leotard and matching head-band and ankle warmers and threatened the very existence of us more lumpy females.

Then, last week, I walked into my local gym at just the wrong moment, and the receptionist made the assumption I was there for “Fit for Life”. 

I like to think it’s because I look like the kind of person who might very well do aerobics should they so choose.

“Alright then,” I said.

I was nervous about my foot, following the major op last July.

But that turned out to be a minor consideration compared with the disability issue I discovered once the class started.  With the vintage disco music pumping and our tiny instructor barking out the names of moves that I had never heard of, I discovered that my brain-limb coordination was flat-lining. 

Luckily I was tucked away at the very back of the hall so nobody could see my ungainly flailing. Until, that is, the instructor shouted “TURN!” and suddenly I was right in front of everybody else.

I pinched myself, but sadly did not wake up.  Meaning this was reality, rather than a recurring nightmare.

I continued to stumble left when she yelled “RIGHT” and vice versa.

At the end, one of the other women suggested I might like to go home and watch YouTube videos of basic aerobics moves to get the hang.

But even after all that, I am going back next time.

I work as a teacher of Latin, and it’s healthy for me to experience the confusion of being confronted with a new unfamiliar language.

S’pose I ought to do my homework too.  YouTube, here I come.

A Birthday without sticky patches

This week it was  Perran and Carenza’s birthday.

In the past the weekend closest to their birthday has been packed with activity.

We have held a Pirate Party, a Harry Potter Party, and one year, owing to a blizzard, even a Build-Your-Own-Igloo Party.  Each year, I have baked two cakes and decorated them elaborately to match their current interests. We have bought and made cards and gifts to capture their imagination.

But a year after the twins moved out to share a rental in London, this birthday was different.

When the weekend arrived, I had nothing better to do than clear out the Welsh dresser; Nigel painted the downstairs loo. 

Finally, early on Sunday afternoon, we pootled into London, took Perran and Carenza to the amazing Bill Viola exhibition at the RA, then on to an early dinner at Sagar, where Will joined us.  I handed over two small and frankly disappointing token gifts and Nigel BACSed them a proper present.

Then we dispersed to our homes. 

It had all been kinda easy.

I felt a little flat until we were opening our front door and Nigel pointed out that we would not be needing to mop up sticky patches of lemonade from the floor, nor pick crisps out from the sofa cushions.  There had been no breakages nor any weepy kids.

All we had to do was watch the last episode of Les Miserables on telly.  And even that came to a more-or-less happy ending.