236. A very bad day

I’ve had a bad day. 

A really bad day. 

A really really bad day. 

Even my friend posting that she is at the dentist’s and she hates the dentist didn’t make me feel any better. 

I have had a really really bad day. 

Although it started ok. I was off. The house was empty. Baby on a field trip somewhere and my husband also on a field trip somewhere. I

It started so good I thought I’d do a bit of work.

And then from that point it went downhill all the way.

It started with someone at the door. A big tall skinny guy dressed in electric blue.

‘Hi! I’m from Electricity's Cheaper! How much do you pay for electricity ? Are you with us? Do you have a meter? I’m doing a survey about …’

The guy was like a talking machine. Except he talked faster than a machine. And he went on and on without stopping to let me answer the questions. Until he remembered he had asked me a question but I couldn’t remember it. 

‘No’ I said, figuring it might pass as a satisfactory answer for a good number of questions.

It did! He even got really excited about me getting the answer right first time. So he went off again about how few people realised that (what?) and it was amazing the difference it made to bills. I smiled. Which got him excited all over again and he started going on about his grand-ma and his new flat he was moving into on Friday. This must have moved me because I asked him to come into the hall to fill his survey in, the outside temperature struggling to stay above zero. Bad idea. This time he went hyper and said that most people kept him out even in the rain (I’m sure this man could go on in the rain too!). All the while tapping frantically onto his phone screen moaning about how slow the connection was around here.

That was when he noticed the meter. And that got him really excited again. He looked at it, asking me where I got it from (?) and if I was happy with it (?) and was pressing the single button several times in rapid succession, reading out all the numbers.

‘You’ve got 6455 AVA bs, that’s pretty good you know, considering the average AVA in this country, you know it is a good meter you’ve got there! A lot of useful info on this. You know when you go to visit family or friends you got to check their meters - it is a good one like this one, and check their AVA number. It’s quite good to see other people’s meters …’

I want to burst out laughing. I can picture myself at a party, a glass of wine in one hand, cocktail pick with olive in the other, saying:

‘And tell me, what’s your AVA number?’

I reckon that would be a pretty good chat line.

‘Would you like to pop into the cellar ? Take your  beer along … Sure, the sausage rolls too … I just want to show you I’ve got an AVA bs of 6455!!!’ 

The man would be so impressed about this.

‘Amazing! Excellent! I’ve never met someone with a 6455 before. How did you get this?

And me shrugging my sequinned shoulders, smiling an innocent yet mischievous smile and chuckling (stupidly) while the lucky man is staring at the meter and daring to press the single button to check for himself.

While I’m going through this scene in my head the guy’s constant chatter is like a radio in the background, so I am surprised to hear him speak.

‘You’re laughing … what’s so funny?’

Which sets him off again. 

‘I’ve actually got something on the stove so ...’

I open the door and wriggle my nose, pretending to smell something burning.

‘I’m trying to do this quickly!’ 

He says, moaning at the dreadful connection in ‘les petites quartiers’ and he storms past the front door and heads down the street, his phone up in the air like a madman. When he’s back at my door I try the stove trick again. 

‘My dinner really is burning. I’m so sorry! I have to go.’

Just then three electric-blue-clad lads come running down the street.

‘We’ll wait for you in the car.’

My man starts to panic now.

‘Wait! Don’t leave me here! I don’t know what street we are parked in!’

He shoves the bit of paper my way and heads down the road after his pals.

I get in. I almost want to check if the dinner is burning but there is no dinner. I am having trouble telling reality from fiction these days. I look at the paper: crumpled, dirty, bad handwriting, and shove it into the fire. 

I wonder how much time I have just wasted.

I call my husband. But he’s driving somewhere, unawares if the dreadful day his wife is having. I am about to collapse in front of a bad movie with a glass of wine when Baby comes in.

‘Oh my goodness! Where have you been?’

She is covered in mud. Coat. Trousers. Shoes. Hat.

‘Chill! It’s Ok! It was all about school work and all worth it. We all got a 10/10 for this today.’

I wonder if one of the criteria for the assessment was to do with the amount of mud they got on their clothes. Is this a teacher’s revenge on parents?

Still I decide to think positive. Baby, impressively brought up by her responsible mother, strips off in the lounge and runs across the house bare feet, in her tee and underpants and shoves everything item in the washing machine. Then runs up the stairs giggling and laughing on the phone with her friends.

‘I’m going for a shower!’ She is screaming, running all the way up the stairs.

I see my phone has messages from work. Messages I don’t want to read. This is too much. I try my husband. Unavailable still. So I go to the fridge, pour myself a glass of wine and decide a bad movie is my best bet.