Simply Sue: Speechless And Down The Drain
Who but Sue Papworth could turn a visit from the blocked-drain men into high comedy?
Speechless and Down the Drain
I’ve not been speaking to anyone for the last week.
It happens sometimes. I get assaulted by ciggie smoke or perfume or an aerosol, or some other noxious substance which gives me a sore throat, and go to bed feeling a bit sand-blasted of tonsil.
Next morning I innocently answer the phone - and the poor schmook on the other end wonders how it is he’s managed to dial a heavy breather rather than get called up by one, because that’s the point at which I discover that my larynx has shut up shop, my vocal chords are out to lunch, and I’ve as much hope of chatting to him as I have of shoving my fist down the phone and grabbing him by the tie.
I can’t think why, but people seem to find it a bit alarming to be confronted by a silent women waving scribbled notes in purple ink – but dammit, if one’s lost one’s voice, what else can one do? (A demented impersonation of Harpo Marx is about the only alternative, but though I’ve tried it, I’ve never found it worked.)
The window cleaner seemed to find it fairly hilarious to have CAN YOU DO TOP ONE WITHOUT BREAKING NECK, WARN ME BEFORE YOU DO THAT AGAIN AND I’LL HAVE THE NERVOUS BREAKDOWN ELSEWHERE or even I WILL SILENTLY BUT THROUGHLY KILL NEXT PERSON THROUGH HALL IN MUDDY TRAINERS shoved up against the double glazing, but others tend to go into reverse rather sharpish, bleating, as though it were a touch eccentric.
Nowt so queer as folk.
I suppose the oddest thing I ever had to deal with whilst speechless was the arrival of the council with this sort of hydraulic elephant to unbung a seriously upbunged drain. Being the only person home in the entire district that day, there was nothing for it but to gird up my fibre tip and trudge out to try and explain to them exactly where the drains were.
In case you didn’t know before, I can now reveal that it’s a dangerous task inserting DON’T BELIEVE PLANS, THEY THINK DRAINS GO UPHILL AT ANGLE 45 DEGREES, NOT TRUE, IN FACT ON OTHER SIDE OF ROAD ALTOGETHER under the nose of a chap clutching a set of jointed rods, especially when he’s thigh-deep in sewage at the time.
I KNOW YOU WON’T BELIVE IT BUT THERE IS A RIGHT-ANGLED BEND UNDER THERE is even worse.
I went off and left them to it at this point, and three hours later this weary and unhygienic gent beat on the door, and when I opened it he shoved this bit of cardboard at me that said YOU WERE RIGHT on one side, and I’M GOING HOME on the other.
But right now, I just have this pile of bits of paper containing halves of conversations I’ve had with various folk who are used to this novel means of communication.
Can anyone remember what on earth we were on about that involved my saying in quick succession BUT IN HAWAII IT’S BETTER, STATISTICAL ANALYSIS, PROBABLY IN THE ATTIC, and AAAAAARGH!!!!!?
