All Right Here?

Having recently moved from the UK to South East Asia, a lot of people have asked me: "So, what's it like, then?" This is my attempt to answer that question.

Thursday, September 30, 2004

Keeping Up Appearances

I’ve read several articles and ads in the local papers recently that I’ve found fairly alarming.

One article starts off:

“If you were walking behind Miss _____ (30), you wouldn’t believe that she is 8 months pregnant.”

It then goes on to proclaim:

“That’s how slim she is…”

I pinched myself. How can a pregnant woman look slim? And why would she want to? All the pregnant women I’ve known have quite liked looking pregnant, or so they’ve said. Perhaps they were all lying. I was puzzled.

The article goes on to advise pregnant women on the best ways to look as if they’re not actually pregnant. Apparently, in order to avoid looking like you’re pregnant, all you need to do is:

“Pay attention to posture, diet, skincare and comfortable and trendy maternity wear.”

So, stand up straight, wash your face, don’t shop at Mothercare and don’t “eat for two”.

But I was still bewildered. What’s wrong with looking pregnant if you are? I’m a teacher, so my apparel consists of a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. If I was a pregnant woman, I’d have a baby inside me, so would look a bit pregnant, and therefore less slim than usual.

Helpfully, the article explained that:

“A little lipstick will brighten the face and mood.”

Of course. Now it all made sense.

I’ve also seen an advert for a plastic surgeon, which, gruesomely, features a photo of a privet hedge in the shape of a woman’s torso juxtaposed with a set of garden shears.

Throughout the world people are obsessed with their appearance, and the desire to look like something that they’re not. I’ve even seen a shop on my travels called “All White”, which specialises in making non-white people look like white people.

As a result of all this, I’ve finally bowed to the pressure and have decided to wander the streets looking like an 18 year old pregnant Thai woman with a beard.

Having done a Google search on that description, I'm satisfied that it's a unique look.

Now I’m bound to fit in.

A Versatile, Adaptable Punchline

A bit David Brent, this one. You know, “I see myself as entertainer first, teacher second…”

Teaching Orwell’s Animal Farm at the moment. I love this book. It’s all about animals on a farm who rebel and revolt, exiling the cruel farmer, only to create a society as bad – if not worse – than the one they replaced.

It’s also about the Russian revolution or something.

I was reading it to my class, and they were interested and engaged. Delighted to say that they're enjoying it as much as I did when I first read it at their age. One lad, however, kept rocking on his chair, despite my warnings that he might fall over.

We got to the bit where the sheep drown out all complaints about the new regime by repeating “Two legs bad! Four legs good!”

I was doing my best sheep voice, and the kids seemed entertained.

At the end of the lesson, the kid who had been swinging on his chair finally fell to the ground. I remarked:

“That’s definitely a case of two legs bad, four legs good.” Even the lad in question laughed as I led him off to see the nurse.

At the end of the day, I told my colleagues, who have also been teaching Animal Farm, my cockroach story. I got to the bit about its legs falling off, and remarked:

“That’s definitely a case of six legs bad, four legs good.”

It’s a versatile, adaptable punchline.

I guess you had to be there.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

An Early Morning Visitor

Imagine my surprise when I arrived at my desk at 6.50 this morning to find this little beauty, sitting there on the floor, just next to my chair.



Of course, I immediately ran around the room, screaming, pulling at my hair and rolling my trousers up until I found a chair to stand on.

I watched him. He watched me. Neither of us moved. Stalemate.

Gingerly, I approached with extreme caution and took a photo. I was too scared to put a recognisable object in the shot to enable you to appreciate its size. Believe me, it was huge.

Courageously, I picked up a metre ruler and flicked him away from my chair and into the middle of the room, because I didn't want him to try to make friends with me. He landed on his back. After watching him waggle his legs about for a minute or so, I flipped him over.

He lost two legs in the process, but didn't seem too bothered.

He remained in the middle of the room as I worked nervously at my desk - I often glanced up at him to check if he'd hobbled off anywhere. After about half an hour, I sensed that we'd built up a grudging respect for each other. I stepped over him and went to a meeting.

By the time I returned, he'd made his excuses and left. I hope he's not back tomorrow with Chris the Cockroach and Sammy the Snake.

Anyone know what he is? I'd like to give him an alliterative name too.

U Turn

Yesterday I suddenly seemed to be interested in politics.

I promise it won't happen again.

The BBC have this great "thing" on their site where they show all the front pages from the newspapers. Click here then click on Tuesday's Front Pages, then change the date to Wednesday 29th Sept 2004. Despite my assertion that the papers would be full of the protesters (which yesterday I managed to spell "protestors") who ruined Blair's speech, none of them even mention it on their front pages.

Indeed, many of them seem to be quite supportive of our Tony.

Oh well. I admit my mistake with good grace.

And, for a far more measured, less ranting, more intelligent view, check this.

Best headline of the day, of course, goes to The Sun - "It's Wayning Goals".

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Tiny Blair

Currently watching Tiny Blair give a speech. He started off by saying something like - "Before I start my speech, let it be known that the family and friends of Kenneth Bigley are in our thoughts and prayers."

A sycophantic round of applause followed.

He then immediately started his speech with a joke.

Do something man! It's not funny, is it? That people are being executed? That terrorism is now far more prevalent since you stuck your oar in? That you aren't prepared to admit you made a mistake?

There were some shouts of protest from the crowd. Tiny blustered for a second. The camera showed a few people being led away by security. Tiny said,

"At least you're in a country in which you can have freedom of speech."

The amassed sheep baa-ed and clapped.

So why were they being led away?

More protestors interrupted his speech later and were led away with some force. It was clear that, despite his smarmy jokes and dismissive one-liners, he was deflated. He knows what the press will be saying tomorrow, just as we do.

The News

A more serious entry.

The local paper here published a story today about the recent tragic siege on School Number 1 in Beslan, North Ossetia. More of that later.

I was watching BBC World here as the stalemate drew to a close and the gunfire started. For half an hour, there was a single camera shot of a green field, 500 metres from the school. The presenter was speaking to a "terrorism expert". Their conversation, for half an hour, as I watched a shot of a green field that didn't change once, consisted of them repeating, over and over again, each time with slightly different wording:

"We don't know what's happening. We can hear shots being fired. Earlier, we heard two loud explosions from the school."

At one point the "expert" even said:

"We can confirm that we don't know what's happening..."

Surely all that confirms is your ignorance.

I eventually became so sickened that I turned the telly off. I felt like they were salivating at the thought that, eventually, they'd know what had happened, and would be able to tell us all the gruesome details. This is the massive problem with 24 hour news stations. I know that this isn't an original point, but when a story breaks, it isn't news. It's vouyeurism. But what choice do they have? Going to "other news" would seem equally callous, wouldn't it?

Well, here's something they could have done. They could have informed the "regular viewer" -probably usually too worried about the situation in their own country and their own lives to have anything more than fleeting knowledge about international affairs - about the background to the Chechen situation. They could have tried to tell the regular viewer why this was happening. Explored the issues. Helped people to understand. Instead, they waited and waited and waited, saying nothing, over and over again, unable to leave the scene because they were probably afraid that the "regular viewer" would turn over to another news channel in case they missed some gory details.

It's all about ratings, isn't it?

Back to today's article in the local paper. It informed me that, apparently, "China" (whatever that means) has ordered TV networks to stop running "unauthorised" text message contests for viewers. This is because one state-run channel held a lottery for viewers to "guess the death toll" as the Beslan tragedy unfolded. Viewers were given four choices, from 302 to 402. The executives from the TV channel have since been "removed" (whatever that means).

In the three weeks since the tragedy, I've watched BBC World every day since for at least half an hour - sometimes I have it on all the time as I work. I thought it might help me stay in touch with the news from here. Tellingly, I've only seen two news items on School Number 1.

Sadly, my only other choice is CNN World.

For slightly dated info on the Chechen conflict, visit this link. For an up to date q and a click here. For news about what's happened since, click here. Ironically, it's all from the brilliant, informative BBC website.

Monday, September 27, 2004

Communication With A Celebrity By Proxy!

My girlfriend Ella works in tv and film. She’s currently working with Kris Marshall, who’s 6 feet 2, as you’re about to get sick of hearing, and plays Nick in popular UK weekend sitcom “My Family”, and also stars in “Murder City”. He was, fantastically, also in “Love, Actually”.

The character Nick told one of my favourite ever sitcom jokes. He met a vicar, who introduced himself to Nick by saying something like: “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Matthew, five six.”

Nick replied:
“Hi. Nick, six two.”

It’s a height/biblical reference joke.

I’ve been irritating my friends, especially Ella, with this joke for some time now, because it’s very funny and original writing, and he really is 6 feet 2, so it seemed like the joke had been written especially for him. Imagine my delight when Ella informed me that she was working with him!

I mention this because firstly, when Ella met him, she said she asked him how tall he was, and he said, “Six two.” She replied “Ella, five six”.

Apparently, he immediately knew exactly what she was talking about. It’s one of his favourite jokes too. Although, according to him, as you’ll discover later, it’s a “gag”.

Then, today, I had a text from Ella saying that, according to Kris, my team (Spurs) are 9th and his team are 8th in the Premiership. Rather excited that I was being spoken about and was communicating by proxy with a celebrity, I immediately checked the BBC website to find out who was in 8th place. To my disgust, I discovered that it was Aston Villa. I quickly replied that one of my favourite football chants is a rather disparaging one about Villa.

Quick as a flash, Ella replied that Kris had informed her that one of his favourite chants was “Glory, glory Man United.”

I was stunned that a Man U fan wouldn’t know what position his team were in the league. I checked again, and Man U are clearly in 5th, not 8th. I sent back a text to Ella, to pass on to my celebrity buddy Kris, that if he’s a true Man U fan, he should know where his team are in the league.

Still with me?

It finally dawned on me. I remembered that Man U beat Spurs on Sunday, and that was why he made that comment. It was a bit of typical “my team may be useless, but at least another team beat yours” type banter. Too late I realised that he really is a Villa fan. I sent back the text:

“Got the wrong end of the stick. He really is sharp, isn’t he?”

I’ve been badgering Ella ever since to give me Kris’ phone number so I can get a quote for my website from the horse’s mouth. She didn’t feel comfortable asking him if she could pass on his phone number for some reason, so I did a bit of investigative journalism, and asked Ella to ask him why the “Nick, six two” gag is one of his favourites.

In the end, imagine my delight: I got a quote by proxy. The reply:

“He likes the “gag” (not “joke”) because it’s very funny and original writing. They wrote the gag for him because he is in fact 6”2... (My italics and inverted commas) Are you gonna write about me one day?"

Ella, I just have.

Finally, I asked Ella to pass on the address of my website to Kris so that he could post a comment on the story. Kris, even if you just confirm that you are, in fact, 6 2, you would make a very sad man very happy.

Hit Counter

Just put a hit counter on this site. Marvellous thing, nice and large on the right there, telling me how many people have visited the site (obviously).

The amazing thing is, every time I check the site to find out how many people have visited, the hit counter has gone up by one! I've checked 82 times now, and the counter reads 83!

Sunday, September 26, 2004

Can You Tell What It Is Yet?

I went out today to do a bit of sightseeing and took my new "digi-cam" with me. Sadly, as you can see, it doesn't seem to take very good photos. The captions took me ages, though.

I did see a couple of things that would've made great photos. A guy on a BMX was doing "grinds" on a wall - you know, wheely-ing onto the wall and sliding along it. He was right by a "No skateboarding or bmx" sign.

By the time I'd got my camera out he was down the street and out of range, only just avoiding two men carrying a large pane of glass across the road.

The other one was a sign saying "No eating alone - fine $5000000". It took me a couple of seconds to realise that it wasn't real, but was actually an advert for a "Lunch Speed Dating" company, and a parody of some of the signs that really exist here like "No dorian on the train - fine $500".

By the time I'd got my camera out, I was at the bottom of the escalator, and the sign was still somewhere near the top.

Anyway, hope you enjoy the photos. Feel free to suggest new captions.

A small portion of a sculpture. Posted by Hello

A little portion of a sculpture. Posted by Hello

A tall building with a pleasing shape. Posted by Hello

A long inflatable dragon with tall buildings in the background. Posted by Hello

The corner of a tall building. Posted by Hello

Implied Criticism

The choice quote from this evening's Premiership coverage:

Presenter: Birmingham seem to be having problems in front of goal this season...
Pundit: Yes, well, they bought Emile Heskey...


Heskey, just before he fell over. Again. Posted by Hello

Actually, just heard one that's even better. Steve Bruce, the Birmingham manager, was apparently assaulted on Saturday morning when checking his daughter's car alarm. He had cuts and bruises all over his face. The "boys in the studio" obviously felt the need to comment, and the pundit said, with some authority:

"The only good thing you can say about this assault is that it wasn't football related."

The words just fall out of their mouths, don't they?

If you hear any ludicrous comments, do keep me informed.

Saturday, September 25, 2004

Marketing

Jezza asks what, and where, I’ve been eating. I’ve actually done a lot of cooking myself. Often, I’ve taken the easy way out and gone to a supermarket for ingredients. At other times, I’ve gone to one of the local markets for an assault on the senses. You can stand and watch fish being slaughtered and butchered live. So persuasive are the stall holders that you can go in only for some carrots, and come away with three bags full of fruit and veg that you don’t need, or understand how to eat.

I spent about half an hour in a local market trying to get the ingredients for a green curry. I got most of the ingredients by only dipping my toes into the outer stalls, but one ingredient, sweet basil, remained elusive. I took the plunge and, as I wandered further in, the produce on the stalls became more colourful and exotic, and my feet became wet because they regularly sluice the fish blood and guts from the market floor.

No one had any sweet basil, though – it was all veg, meat and fish but no herbs. Eventually, one stall holder pointed me in the direction of a little old lady in the corner. I was reliably informed that she had every herb under the sun. The only problem was, I didn’t know what sweet basil looked like, and she didn’t know what it sounded like in English. I bought some random looking herb anyway and put it in my bag.

I then went to the supermarket and bought some sweet basil.

I got home to discover that what I’d actually bought from the little old lady in the market was, in fact, sweet basil.

Finally, when I made my green curry, I forgot to put the sweet basil in.

As for eating out, the best places I’ve eaten have been the hawker centres. I’m sure if you’ve been to this part of the world you’ll know what I’m talking about – tiny stall after tiny stall, each specialising in about 10 different dishes – there’s fresh seafood, Chinese, noodles, Indian curry, Thai cuisine – the choice is comprehensive, and you sit and eat it at a plastic table and stool. The prices are fantastic, and the food is delicious.

You can easily spend four times as much for a less tasty meal in a fancy restaurant. I did this once with four colleagues. We were in ex-pat central, by the river. It was a Thai restaurant. Our meal was accompanied by the strains of rugby songs floating through the night sky, and banker types hovered in their garish shirts, sweating profusely, talking loudly about themselves, and adding extra volume whenever they mentioned a sum of money.

The waiter who took our order managed to persuade us to change our order entirely. He also suggested we order medium sized dishes so we could share with each other.

We had to ask for doggy bags having left far more food than we were able to eat. The prawns alone were large enough to make me wonder whether they’d been specially bred or genetically modified.

And then there’s McDonalds. There always is, isn't there? I’ve not been, but it’s everywhere. The hawker centres seem to be full of Westerners trying out something different, and the Maccy Ds and KFCs seem to be full of locals trying out something different. I guess the grass is always greener.

Finally, today I went to a tiny cafe and had this. It was delicious, but before I left I needed to use the "restroom", which was through the kitchen. As I surveyed the scene before my eyes, the meal lost some of its pleasant aftertaste.


Chicken curry and rice Posted by Hello

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

The Zoo

I went out for dinner with about 20 of my new colleagues on Sunday. At one point, I was chatting with one about what we'd been up to for the weekend. She told me she'd been to the zoo. I replied enthusiastically that I'd been to the zoo too, and loved it. She said, "We'll have to go, then. No one else seems to be particularly bothered about going."

I thought that this was a bit odd for a couple of reasons. Firstly, if you've already been to the zoo, why would you want to go again so soon? Secondly, I couldn't believe that no one else wanted to go. There must be someone else interested in seeing free ranging animals (it's a very humane zoo, if such a thing exists).

She then started talking about all the great music they played there. They have a night safari there, so I assumed she was talking about that, and that they played music while you look at the animals. I said I didn't go at night. She looked at me as if I was a bit odd.

It finally dawned on me that I'd misheard her. I realised that she' d said she'd been to Zuke, which is a night club.

I didn't admit my mistake. I had an opportunity a bit later when she told a few people about it and said, "Mike's been, and he thinks it's great!"

I just nodded.

My question is, at what point do I admit that I like seeing animals rather than going to night clubs? Apparently it stays open till 4am. I just can't do that anymore. Any suggestions? Do I admit it, or keep pretending that I'm cool?

Monday, September 20, 2004

Not Watching The Football

If you've read Customer Service and Signing Up, you'll know the troubled time I've had of it trying to get football on my telly. After finally getting everything installed, I expected to find that actually watching the football would be a breeze. After all, I'm an experienced arm chair fan. Sadly, it's been fraught with problems.

I settled down to watch England v Austria (or whoever it was) the other week at about 1am. About ten minutes into the game, I discovered that I was feeling rather drowsy, and had no idea whether I'd make it to half time without having a little bit of a doze. I gave in to it. I set my phone alarm to go off just before half time so I'd catch the first half highlights.

However, when my alarm went off I glanced at the telly, only to discover that the adverts were on. Even before the ad break had finished, I felt my eyes closing again, so quickly set my alarm for just before the end of the game.

This time, my alarm didn't even go off.

Instead, I was woken up by a long, unbroken, high pitched tone, and looked at the telly, only to discover that the game was over, and the channel had shut down.

I dragged myself disconsolately to bed.

I thought I'd fare better on Sunday, when Spurs v Chelsea kicked off at the more acceptable hour of 11pm. This time I managed to sit through the entire game, and wished I'd fallen asleep. A dour 0-0 draw.

I dragged myself disconsolately to bed.

The next day, I saw an interview with Chelsea coach Jose Mourhino. He was scathing about Spurs' lack of ambition, and finished his interview with the comment:

"In my country, when a team comes only to defend, we say they brought the bus, and parked the bus in front of goal."

This took him all of five seconds to say, and was 100% more entertaining than the 90 minutes I'd endured the night before.

I'm beginning to think that tennis might not be such a bad idea after all...

Sunday, September 19, 2004

A Room With A View


This is the quite simply stunning view from my apartment. As you can see, I have a great deal of natural light these days. It blocks out the sound of the busy main road just behind the building. I have yet to confirm this, but I think everybody who lives in this apartment owns a dog. These dogs regularly wake each other up at about 4am.

What I'm Not Doing


Some people think that all I've done since I arrived is play tennis (see comment posted by Johnny on Customer Service). If you look closely, you'll discover that I'm neither of the people in this photograph. I don't play tennis, and don't intend to start. Please leave it now.

However, I do know enough about tennis to be certain that the position of the receiver is going to leave him in trouble if the serve goes to his backhand.Posted by Hello

Saturday, September 18, 2004

Signing Up

In order to make enquiries about getting cable and internet installed, instead of making a phone call, I went to a shop one evening after work. On reflection, a poor decision.

The shop was brassy, loud and throbbing with customers. A queuing system was in operation, not unlike the queuing system employed by UK supermarket meat counters. You get a number and wait your turn. I was number 053. The “currently serving” board showed number 034.

The wait was interminable.

I could have looked at all the mobile phones on display but that would have been more boring than sitting down on a ledge doing nothing. So I sat down on a ledge and did nothing.

There were three computer terminals, with internet access, dead in front of where I was sitting. Only one of these was working. Throughout my wait, a young couple were using the one fully operational computer to play a football penalty shoot-out internet game. I passed my time dreaming up imaginative ways to inflict damage upon them, thus enabling me to incapacitate them, step over their prostrate bodies, and do something crucial, like check my email for a few minutes, before selflessly allowing someone else to use the computer. I spent a short time perusing the various cable and broadband offers that were available on a dull, shoddy photocopy I’d been given, but my needs were simple – I just wanted to make enquiries. Enquiries about prices.

The counter ticked slowly to number 051. Suddenly, the screen went blank. Panic set in. I stood up, strode purposefully around the corner to the counters, and joined the ranks of people in whom panic had also set in, all of us looking menacingly around at each other, brandishing our slips of paper, all thinking, “if anyone pushes in…”

Fortunately, a member of staff managed to stop the impending riot by somehow turning the screens on again without losing the current number. Relieved, I remained where I was, glaring at the screen, willing it to change.

Half an hour later, I finally sat down to talk to an advisor, whose name badge read “Brendon”, to make my enquiries. I showed him my slip of paper with my number on. Brendon, young and clean cut, looked at me as if he’d never seen such a piece of paper before in his life. We both looked at each other. I wondered when he was going to start the conversation.

Realising that I would have to take the initiative, I told him that I was here to make some simple enquiries about internet access, cable tv and also broadband telephony. I wasn’t really sure what broadband telephony was, but hoped that it was phoning people via your internet connection, which I’d heard was cheap. Brendon looked at me blankly.

Finally, after some more staring, and no conversation, he produced a familiar looking, dull, shoddy photocopy of the various cable and broadband offers that were available to me.

“Which offer you want?” he asked. I looked at the offers. I pointed to the cheapest cable offer that included live Premiership football. He nodded. I had brought with me a sheet of paper which outlined the specifications of my cheap, slow laptop, which I had purchased on a whim while still jet-lagged. I handed it to him.
“What I really want to know is,” I said, “can I get broadband telephony with these specifications, and how much will it cost?”

He looked at the piece of paper without looking at it.

I realised I had to clarify things. “Is broadband telephony… you know… not sure if I’ve got the right word… is it phoning people using your broadband connection?”

His eyes lit up, as if remembering something that he'd only recently been told.

“Digital voice,” he said. “You want digital voice.”
“Er… quite possibly… what is it and how much does it cost?”

He proceeded to write some numbers down on a piece of paper. The numbers, if they were prices, looked very reasonable.

“You want this,” he said, pointing to the most expensive, fastest broadband offer. I nodded. He asked me for my passport and green card and took them into a back room. He emerged some time later, clutching a dull, shoddy photocopy of my passport and green card. He selected three forms from a rack, sat down, and started filling them in.

Things were progressing rather too quickly for my liking. After all, I’d only come to make enquiries. I decided the time had come for me to be more assertive.
“Excuse me,” I began confidently, “but I only came to make enquiries. What I want to know is how much will it cost?” He glanced up at me.
“I’m just doing the calculations,” he replied.

The forms he was filling in had the word CONTRACT very clearly printed at the top.

I decided to allow him to continue with his calculations.

About ten minutes later he had finished filling in the same details on all three forms, but had ticked different boxes on each one to denote separate cable, broadband and digital voice services. He had also written “digital voice” on all three forms.

He then got a calculator out and, referring to a different price sheet, tapped in the prices. It did occur to me that this would have been a rather quicker way of satisfactorily answering my initial price query, but I bowed to his expertise.

The number he held up to show me alarmed me, as it was well above my current means. “At risk of repeating myself,” I asked, “how much is the digital voice?” Without referring to any pieces of paper at all, he was able to inform me that the installation of digital voice, together with the deposit, was well over the equivalent of a hundred pounds.
“Right, I see,” I remarked, stroking my chin. “I won’t bother with that, then. Just moved here, you see… don’t have much money yet… I was only really wanting to enquire...”

He ripped up two of the three forms, selected another two, and proceeded to fill them in with the same details as before, without writing the words “digital voice” on them. It did occur to me that he could have simply crossed out the words "digital voice" on the forms, but I decided that he must know what he was doing. Nonetheless, I had an alarming feeling that something had gone wrong, and tried to peer at the forms, but his hands were in the way.

It was only five minutes later that I worked out why I’d had the alarming feeling: I noticed that the only form he had failed to rip up was the digital voice contract.

I decided against telling him, because for some reason part of me still assumed that he knew his job, and he had to do it like this.

He noticed just as he’d finished crossing the last t of the last form. He expelled a loud sigh, ripped up all the forms, and selected another two from the rack.

For the next ten minutes, as he noiselessly filled in my details for the third time, I did a great deal of soul searching. Although I’d only come to make enquiries, the deal I was getting was reasonable, so I was glad that I’d got it all sorted out tonight. However, I couldn’t help feeling that perhaps the problems had been my fault. Although he had good English, like most people, perhaps if I’d tried to learn at least one of the other languages spoken here before I came out, none of this would have happened. If I’d been a bit clearer that I’d just come to make enquiries about prices, perhaps everything would have been ok. But I couldn’t help concluding that I wasn’t the only one to blame.

I observed that he now knew my phone number and address off by heart.

Finally, as the shutters on the shop were being pulled down, some two hours after I had arrived, I finally signed up to cable and broadband. It was then, and only then, that I looked more closely at his name badge. Underneath "Brendon" I read, very clearly, one word. That word was TRAINEE.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Customer Service

It started with a phone call. "Hello," said the voice, "are you in?"
"Er... yes."
"What do I call you?"
"Michael."
"Mr Michael, I'm early. Can I come now?"
"That would be fantastic."

I'd already made my new place feel familiar - books scattered everywhere, washing up piled up in the sink, pieces of useless paper littering every available surface. This man, however, was finally about to transform my house into a home. I hadn't met him yet, but I already loved him.

He was about to install my internet connection, and, far more importantly, my access to live Premiership football.

He arrived a couple of minutes later, grinning, bespectacled and carrying plastic bags. I let him in, apologising for the mess, explaining, with scant regard for the truth, that I'd only just moved in. His opening gambit:
"You very handsome."
"Thanks," I said, blushing and giggling. He looked at me expectantly, and I was wondering whether he might lose face if I didn't reply that he was handsome too, when he blinked, knelt on the floor and, to my relief, busied himself with the tools of his job.

I offered him a chair. He refused, preferring to stay on his knees and slide himself across the floor, occasionally glancing up at me.
"Where you from?" he asked. I explained. For some reason he found my reply amusing. Fumbling around in his bag, he asked,
"You like seafood?" Somewhat unnerved, I began to explain that I liked some seafood, and that I love the taste of prawns but have to pretend I'm not eating them because their resemblance to large maggots offends my palate, when he interrupted with one word:
"Vouchers."

He said it as if he'd just produced the crown jewels.

He proceeded to place several vouchers on top of some of the useless bits of paper that were on top of my coffee table. He looked at me, rummaged again, then produced some more.
"You get extra because you so handsome." Blushing, giggling, and shuffling uneasily further back into my chair, I thanked him, then shuffled forward again, because I didn't want to appear too relaxed. He stabbed a finger in the direction of my window. My eyes followed the direction of his finger.
"Nice seafood restaurant. Prawns, lobster, crab, tuna anything you like."

He seemed to be pointing at the 12th floor of the residence opposite.

"I love tuna," I remarked.

Slipping back towards the television, he plugged his cable in and the lights on the modem lit up. I was sitting by my computer which was on the coffee table. He lurched towards me. He plugged the other end of his cable in.

"You married?" he asked, flicking his eyes up to meet mine.
"No," I replied. He looked surprised, and then laughed again.
"Look at this," he remarked, touching my knee, which jerked away from him rapidly, "super fast modem." The modem was, indeed, super fast. He began to type in an internet address. Fortunately, it was the cable company's homepage. "Ah," he said again, with some surprise, and, tapping my knee with each word, remarked, "super fast extra rapid modem." He seemed to be playing his own game of adding as many pre-modifiers as possible to the noun "modem". I was about to join in with something like: "super duper fast extra rapid lightning modem" when he recommended a website to me that was, apparently, "full of great pictures."
"Fantastic," I remarked, but was not in enough control of my faculties to remember the address.
He gave me some forms to fill in. I had to cross my name out and start again because I had spelt it wrong, but I managed to regain my composure whilst continuing to engage in excrutiatingly polite conversation. He set about attaching his cable box to the tv.

Silence rested upon us.

I signed the final form and looked up to find him staring at me.
"How old is Mr Michael?" he asked.
"Thirty in a week."
"Ah!" he remarked, "you look so young!"

He propelled himself towards me again and demonstrated the remote control, showing me his channels. He passed the remote to me, and, for a split second, our hands touched.
"Sorry," I said.

Finally, when everything was done, he said,
"One thing I like you to do for me."

The curtains swayed in the breeze. A solitary ant made its way across the floor.

"Yes?" I whispered.
"Fill in customer satisfaction survey on this website." With that, he stood up, bade me farewell, laughed a couple of times, and left, uttering emphatically,
"So very handsome."

I filled in the form immediately. It was a drop down menu. "Too friendly" wasn't a category. Nor was "Far more eloquent and far less gruff than Telewest", so I settled for "Very good".

I wiped the sweat from my brow, poured myself a large glass of wine and settled down to watch the football.