![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
What just happened to me?
Jul. 15th, 2012 04:05 pmI got a voicemail yesterday from an elderly lady called MISS G (she repeated it three times and spelt her surname). She would be 'awfully glad to get some ironing done, perhaps today; I thought as it was raining you might have some time free? The ironing is desperately needed, as I have done quite a lot of laundreh.' I thought she sounded like a character. I called her back and offered to go and visit her today, and we agreed I'd pop along at 10:30am.
I'd never been to East Grimstead before and knowing Wiltshire villages - so many farmhouses with tiny little inadequate signs - I knew it might take me some time to find it, as the address she gave me was vague and the map on my phone had no decent advice either. I therefore left my house at 9:15am to give myself plenty of time. As expected I ended up driving up and down through the village countless times, with no phone signal at all, before giving in and driving up some of the long driveways and asking owners of huge estates where this goddamn place is.
Anyway, luckily (or so I thought) I found the place at dead-on 10:30. It was up a little lane, which opened up to sprawling land, and the grandest house I've ever been into in my life. She came out to meet me at the enormous double gate and said, "Are you here to do the ironing?!"
"Yes, hello!" I said, cheerfully.
"Well?! The gate is open!"
It was a huge double gate with the posts in the ground, you know; quite fiddly. I must've looked like I was struggling: '"Well, do come on. Haven't you seen a gate like this before?!"
She made me follow her inside, saying things like, "Come along," and "Wipe your feet just here," and I had to repeat everything I said twice. Obviously deaf; fair enough, I told myself to speak clearly. Then we got indoors, into this massive, massive old-fashioned farmhouse, full of gorgeous blue decor and beautiful art, and she sat down at her table by the window and told me she'd lost my number and would I please tell her my full name and address? So I did. I had to repeat it so many times, and after each attempt I got one of the following lines BARKED at me:
"I can't hear you if you don't speak."
"You are talking, but no sound is coming out!"
"You're not saying anything."
"I couldn't hear what you said, but I suppose it doesn't matter."
"You need to speak clearly."
When I nervously giggled, apologised and cleared my throat,
"It's not a joke. You are wasting my time. You have already wasted half an hour of my time by being late."
I wasn't going to stand for that so I told her, "No, I wasn't late; we agreed ten-thirty."
She said, "Ten, or ten-thirty?"
"TEN THIRTY."
"Oh I wrote down ten o'clock. My mistake then. Come along."
No apology, then, for speaking to me like a piece of pond scum. Brilliant. Embarrassingly, I started to cry. Luckily she didn't notice and carried on verbally abusing me while I kept repeating my address. Eventually she gave up and walked away muttering, "Well perhaps I shall get you a pen and you can perhaps write it down, if you can't speak."
I wrote my information down. She said, "Oh, I see, Water LANE."
How you can mistake the word 'Lane' when someone's telling you their address, I do not know; I know I can be quite mumbly at times but I was saying it very, very clearly. Who knows? I obviously can't speak English. Anyway, she showed me to the iron, and by now my tears were flowing down my face - I was angry at being spoken to in such a way and wanted to get the hell out, but just didn't know what to say - and I didn't want to flounce like a moody teenager. So anyway,
"Just HOW OLD are you?"
"I'm thirty."
"THIRTEEN?"
"No," I was trying not to lose my temper, "THREE ZERO, THIRTY."
"Oh. Well you know how to iron then?"
"Yes."
I wasn't even hiding my anger now; I don't know if she noticed the thunderous expression on my face. She started banging on about her pile of clothes while I was trying to stop crying. I've always angry-cried. I can't help it; once I've started, there's no stopping it. And then, to my embarrassment, probably because I felt completely powerless and trapped - I started to have a panic attack. That was when she noticed.
"Oh, you're upset. Why are you crying? Are you alright? You can't possibly iron like this, you'll burn yourself. Let's go for a walk."
She directed me to a bench and made me sit on it, said she would leave me alone to "calm down." She made me a huge cup of tea and brought it out to me, while I was sitting there trying to breathe, on a neat little tray with some adorable little blocks of cake. She rubbed my arm and called me a "poor thing", then she started asking me questions about my life, did I have sisters and brothers, she told me about the farm, about how the council are building some god-awful railings on a bridge that's been there for two hundred years, "In case somebody falls onto the tracks, even though nobody has fallen onto those tracks in centuries. Isn't that funny? Do eat your cake."
I said, "I'm so sorry. I'm so embarrassed."
"Oh, don't be. Life's too short."
Then, she took me back in to the ironing and said, "You're obviously not a well girl, so are you sure you can iron? You might do yourself an injury." I got on with it anyway, and she came in and out to take and hang the finished things, occasionally grabbing things out of my hands and showing me how to do it properly - "You take it seam-to-seam, then you get the crease at the front right every time," as if I've EVER had to iron creases in ANY pair of trousers in my LIFE, "Don't worry so much about those, they're my farming clothes - But you're going to end up with about six creases in that!" I laughed at my own appalling trouser-crease technique saying, "I know, I've never done creases like this," and got a stern, "It isn't funny," in reply. I honestly felt like a poor maid, young and inexperienced, sent away to serve a rich Victorian family, rather than a grown-up, modern woman with her own house, dog, business and semi-successful synthpop combo.
When I said something, she said, "I didn't hear you, I am a little deaf because of this thing, whatever [illness] I've got." Oh right, so now it's not my diction that's the issue? LOL. As she was in and out, interfering and hanging up the clothes, she asked me about my business and so on. I eventually told her I normally take people's ironing away and do it at home. Thankfully, thankfully, she suggested maybe I could take hers away as well. I finished up my hour and we sorted the pile into binbags for me to take home, "Come along, a bit faster than that," she scolded. "I have work to do and I haven't even started yet, after this disastrous morning."
Of course, I'm not to put any dog hairs on her clothes, not to touch the dogs and then touch her clothes as it's unhygienic; and I definitely should not generally have dogs in the house if I'm ironing people's clothes.
"Oh, don't worry I'm very careful about hairs. My house is very clean, even with my dog in it."
"YOUR DOG? YOU'VE GOT A DOG? He won't be in the car with my clothes, will he?"
"Yes but he'll be in the back, and I put the clothes in the front."
"I don't think you should be cleaning people's homes and clothes and looking after dogs."
"Well, my business is called Mutts & Mops. MUTTS AND MOPS? MUTTS AND MOPS, as in DOGS and CLEANING? It's what I do."
"Oh. No, I don't think they should go together at all."
I stayed quiet and looked at my hands. She handed me my money and asked if there was anything else I needed to know. I said, "No that's all, I think," with a nervous smile. I scratched my head.
"And now you're scratching your head. Please, please when you come to see me again, tie up your hair? I just can't BEAR it all hanging around like that. Why do you keep touching your face? You're always going like this, and like this..." She imitated the 'habits' I had been showing, rubbing my eyes, scratching my nose. Probably because you made me cry, you harsh old bitch?! "It makes people uncomfortable. It makes ME uncomfortable. Oh. Now WHY are you crying again? I can't bear it when people cry around me."
I stood up, got a tissue out of my pocket and blew my nose, tried not to lose my temper but it slipped out anyway, "I'm not used to being spoken to so directly."
"What? You're not being spoken to like what?"
"SO DIRECTLY."
"What do you mean 'directly'? Do you think I'm being cross with you?"
"Well, yes. You're speaking to me like I'm a naughty schoolgirl and it's a bit of a shock to be honest."
"I'm not being cross. I'm trying to help you."
"Okay, okay."
"Alright? Is there anything else I can tell you?"
"No, that's fine."
"I'll help you with the clothes."
"That's okay, I've got them. I'll bring them back at three o'clock tomorrow then."
"Three, or three-thirty?"
"Three o'clock."
Then she said something about me being a nice person and I'm obviously very human, and we should get along just fine. Okay then, if you say so. She then started talking about the paintings on the wall - it turns out she'd done them all. Okay then.
What a weirdo.
I'd never been to East Grimstead before and knowing Wiltshire villages - so many farmhouses with tiny little inadequate signs - I knew it might take me some time to find it, as the address she gave me was vague and the map on my phone had no decent advice either. I therefore left my house at 9:15am to give myself plenty of time. As expected I ended up driving up and down through the village countless times, with no phone signal at all, before giving in and driving up some of the long driveways and asking owners of huge estates where this goddamn place is.
Anyway, luckily (or so I thought) I found the place at dead-on 10:30. It was up a little lane, which opened up to sprawling land, and the grandest house I've ever been into in my life. She came out to meet me at the enormous double gate and said, "Are you here to do the ironing?!"
"Yes, hello!" I said, cheerfully.
"Well?! The gate is open!"
It was a huge double gate with the posts in the ground, you know; quite fiddly. I must've looked like I was struggling: '"Well, do come on. Haven't you seen a gate like this before?!"
She made me follow her inside, saying things like, "Come along," and "Wipe your feet just here," and I had to repeat everything I said twice. Obviously deaf; fair enough, I told myself to speak clearly. Then we got indoors, into this massive, massive old-fashioned farmhouse, full of gorgeous blue decor and beautiful art, and she sat down at her table by the window and told me she'd lost my number and would I please tell her my full name and address? So I did. I had to repeat it so many times, and after each attempt I got one of the following lines BARKED at me:
"I can't hear you if you don't speak."
"You are talking, but no sound is coming out!"
"You're not saying anything."
"I couldn't hear what you said, but I suppose it doesn't matter."
"You need to speak clearly."
When I nervously giggled, apologised and cleared my throat,
"It's not a joke. You are wasting my time. You have already wasted half an hour of my time by being late."
I wasn't going to stand for that so I told her, "No, I wasn't late; we agreed ten-thirty."
She said, "Ten, or ten-thirty?"
"TEN THIRTY."
"Oh I wrote down ten o'clock. My mistake then. Come along."
No apology, then, for speaking to me like a piece of pond scum. Brilliant. Embarrassingly, I started to cry. Luckily she didn't notice and carried on verbally abusing me while I kept repeating my address. Eventually she gave up and walked away muttering, "Well perhaps I shall get you a pen and you can perhaps write it down, if you can't speak."
I wrote my information down. She said, "Oh, I see, Water LANE."
How you can mistake the word 'Lane' when someone's telling you their address, I do not know; I know I can be quite mumbly at times but I was saying it very, very clearly. Who knows? I obviously can't speak English. Anyway, she showed me to the iron, and by now my tears were flowing down my face - I was angry at being spoken to in such a way and wanted to get the hell out, but just didn't know what to say - and I didn't want to flounce like a moody teenager. So anyway,
"Just HOW OLD are you?"
"I'm thirty."
"THIRTEEN?"
"No," I was trying not to lose my temper, "THREE ZERO, THIRTY."
"Oh. Well you know how to iron then?"
"Yes."
I wasn't even hiding my anger now; I don't know if she noticed the thunderous expression on my face. She started banging on about her pile of clothes while I was trying to stop crying. I've always angry-cried. I can't help it; once I've started, there's no stopping it. And then, to my embarrassment, probably because I felt completely powerless and trapped - I started to have a panic attack. That was when she noticed.
"Oh, you're upset. Why are you crying? Are you alright? You can't possibly iron like this, you'll burn yourself. Let's go for a walk."
She directed me to a bench and made me sit on it, said she would leave me alone to "calm down." She made me a huge cup of tea and brought it out to me, while I was sitting there trying to breathe, on a neat little tray with some adorable little blocks of cake. She rubbed my arm and called me a "poor thing", then she started asking me questions about my life, did I have sisters and brothers, she told me about the farm, about how the council are building some god-awful railings on a bridge that's been there for two hundred years, "In case somebody falls onto the tracks, even though nobody has fallen onto those tracks in centuries. Isn't that funny? Do eat your cake."
I said, "I'm so sorry. I'm so embarrassed."
"Oh, don't be. Life's too short."
Then, she took me back in to the ironing and said, "You're obviously not a well girl, so are you sure you can iron? You might do yourself an injury." I got on with it anyway, and she came in and out to take and hang the finished things, occasionally grabbing things out of my hands and showing me how to do it properly - "You take it seam-to-seam, then you get the crease at the front right every time," as if I've EVER had to iron creases in ANY pair of trousers in my LIFE, "Don't worry so much about those, they're my farming clothes - But you're going to end up with about six creases in that!" I laughed at my own appalling trouser-crease technique saying, "I know, I've never done creases like this," and got a stern, "It isn't funny," in reply. I honestly felt like a poor maid, young and inexperienced, sent away to serve a rich Victorian family, rather than a grown-up, modern woman with her own house, dog, business and semi-successful synthpop combo.
When I said something, she said, "I didn't hear you, I am a little deaf because of this thing, whatever [illness] I've got." Oh right, so now it's not my diction that's the issue? LOL. As she was in and out, interfering and hanging up the clothes, she asked me about my business and so on. I eventually told her I normally take people's ironing away and do it at home. Thankfully, thankfully, she suggested maybe I could take hers away as well. I finished up my hour and we sorted the pile into binbags for me to take home, "Come along, a bit faster than that," she scolded. "I have work to do and I haven't even started yet, after this disastrous morning."
Of course, I'm not to put any dog hairs on her clothes, not to touch the dogs and then touch her clothes as it's unhygienic; and I definitely should not generally have dogs in the house if I'm ironing people's clothes.
"Oh, don't worry I'm very careful about hairs. My house is very clean, even with my dog in it."
"YOUR DOG? YOU'VE GOT A DOG? He won't be in the car with my clothes, will he?"
"Yes but he'll be in the back, and I put the clothes in the front."
"I don't think you should be cleaning people's homes and clothes and looking after dogs."
"Well, my business is called Mutts & Mops. MUTTS AND MOPS? MUTTS AND MOPS, as in DOGS and CLEANING? It's what I do."
"Oh. No, I don't think they should go together at all."
I stayed quiet and looked at my hands. She handed me my money and asked if there was anything else I needed to know. I said, "No that's all, I think," with a nervous smile. I scratched my head.
"And now you're scratching your head. Please, please when you come to see me again, tie up your hair? I just can't BEAR it all hanging around like that. Why do you keep touching your face? You're always going like this, and like this..." She imitated the 'habits' I had been showing, rubbing my eyes, scratching my nose. Probably because you made me cry, you harsh old bitch?! "It makes people uncomfortable. It makes ME uncomfortable. Oh. Now WHY are you crying again? I can't bear it when people cry around me."
I stood up, got a tissue out of my pocket and blew my nose, tried not to lose my temper but it slipped out anyway, "I'm not used to being spoken to so directly."
"What? You're not being spoken to like what?"
"SO DIRECTLY."
"What do you mean 'directly'? Do you think I'm being cross with you?"
"Well, yes. You're speaking to me like I'm a naughty schoolgirl and it's a bit of a shock to be honest."
"I'm not being cross. I'm trying to help you."
"Okay, okay."
"Alright? Is there anything else I can tell you?"
"No, that's fine."
"I'll help you with the clothes."
"That's okay, I've got them. I'll bring them back at three o'clock tomorrow then."
"Three, or three-thirty?"
"Three o'clock."
Then she said something about me being a nice person and I'm obviously very human, and we should get along just fine. Okay then, if you say so. She then started talking about the paintings on the wall - it turns out she'd done them all. Okay then.
What a weirdo.
