Nancy – a long, white hair. I could have chosen any jar, but for some reason it was that one I’d been drawn to – the one which contained a token from my wife. I sucked it clean and laid it on the side of my plate. It was a sign of her approval, I was sure. She was pleased with what I had done so far. It made me think about what else I might do to please her. Be bold, I thought. So I was.
It was a bright, crisp day, the sun sharp and valiant and I enjoyed the feel of it on my face as I sat on the top of the bus. Although it was only a short walk from Oxford Circus, it took longer than it should have to negotiate my way through the dithering pedestrians and reach the electrical department of John Lewis, but lunch had restored my energy. A new vacuum cleaner, that’s what I settled on; which one, though? I looked around for help and there he was. The man I was looking for. He was helpful at first, the suited young salesman with his slip-on shoes and his name badge. He seemed to understand exactly what I needed. Something light for an old boy to manage up and down the stairs. He was sympathetic when I told him that my wife, sadly deceased, had taken care of most of the household duties. He suggested a Dyson, something I could pull behind me, with a handle to make it easier to get up the stairs. Attachments and a super-suck, nothing stronger on the market. Oh, but I did feel nostalgic for an upright. I felt I would be more comfortable with something that resembled our old model. I couldn’t help noticing the smell of tobacco on him. Just back from a sneaky fag, no doubt. The upright proved even heavier than the Dyson – I wasn’t sure I had the strength to manage it. Perhaps something non-electrical might be better? A Bissle? Isn’t that what they’re called? Something with rollers that catch the dust as they move over the carpet? What about that? He cocked his head and looked as if I had asked him to conjugate his Latin verbs. Then he fired off his own questions: how thick was my pile? Carpet or rugs? Bare floors? He struggled on as best he could and we went backwards and forwards until he could no longer hide his impatience. Was I taking up too much of his time? Was I eating into his tea break? I could see the tension in his jaw, the gritting of his teeth, the glancing over to a colleague and the rolling of his eyes. I’m sure if his manager had seen that, he would have been taken to task. What would you do, if you were me? I asked. The Dyson, he said. You’re the expert, I replied and he took down the box and told me ‘it won’t disappoint’. Well worth the money. Never knowingly undersold. He carried it to the cash desk, at which point I had a change of heart. How to break it to him? It was a lot of money for someone on a pension. I couldn’t go through with it, I said. I hoped I hadn’t wasted his time.
I’d wanted to give him a chance. Surely he would have a go at persuading me to buy something I didn’t need. But he was hopeless. A complete waste of space. I doubt he would be considered the right material for the management training scheme. A couple of days later I returned with a thank-you gift for him and left it with the girl at the cash desk. Tell him it’s from an appreciative customer, I said.
Having delivered my first two books, I had to wait, frequently checking my laptop for a review, a message – anything. I wasn’t surprised there was nothing from him, but I had anticipated some feedback from her. Heartless bitch. I had wanted to remain anonymous for as long as possible and to tease her out, but now I felt compelled to go back to her house and see what the hell was going on.
Such a nice house. Recently painted, front garden well planted. This was a home. A nice home, yet a home into which I would not be welcome. I had been standing there for about an hour. It was cold, a bitter spring day. At last a car pulled up. The rear doors burst open and children piled out. Three of them in
It was a bright, crisp day, the sun sharp and valiant and I enjoyed the feel of it on my face as I sat on the top of the bus. Although it was only a short walk from Oxford Circus, it took longer than it should have to negotiate my way through the dithering pedestrians and reach the electrical department of John Lewis, but lunch had restored my energy. A new vacuum cleaner, that’s what I settled on; which one, though? I looked around for help and there he was. The man I was looking for. He was helpful at first, the suited young salesman with his slip-on shoes and his name badge. He seemed to understand exactly what I needed. Something light for an old boy to manage up and down the stairs. He was sympathetic when I told him that my wife, sadly deceased, had taken care of most of the household duties. He suggested a Dyson, something I could pull behind me, with a handle to make it easier to get up the stairs. Attachments and a super-suck, nothing stronger on the market. Oh, but I did feel nostalgic for an upright. I felt I would be more comfortable with something that resembled our old model. I couldn’t help noticing the smell of tobacco on him. Just back from a sneaky fag, no doubt. The upright proved even heavier than the Dyson – I wasn’t sure I had the strength to manage it. Perhaps something non-electrical might be better? A Bissle? Isn’t that what they’re called? Something with rollers that catch the dust as they move over the carpet? What about that? He cocked his head and looked as if I had asked him to conjugate his Latin verbs. Then he fired off his own questions: how thick was my pile? Carpet or rugs? Bare floors? He struggled on as best he could and we went backwards and forwards until he could no longer hide his impatience. Was I taking up too much of his time? Was I eating into his tea break? I could see the tension in his jaw, the gritting of his teeth, the glancing over to a colleague and the rolling of his eyes. I’m sure if his manager had seen that, he would have been taken to task. What would you do, if you were me? I asked. The Dyson, he said. You’re the expert, I replied and he took down the box and told me ‘it won’t disappoint’. Well worth the money. Never knowingly undersold. He carried it to the cash desk, at which point I had a change of heart. How to break it to him? It was a lot of money for someone on a pension. I couldn’t go through with it, I said. I hoped I hadn’t wasted his time.
I’d wanted to give him a chance. Surely he would have a go at persuading me to buy something I didn’t need. But he was hopeless. A complete waste of space. I doubt he would be considered the right material for the management training scheme. A couple of days later I returned with a thank-you gift for him and left it with the girl at the cash desk. Tell him it’s from an appreciative customer, I said.
Having delivered my first two books, I had to wait, frequently checking my laptop for a review, a message – anything. I wasn’t surprised there was nothing from him, but I had anticipated some feedback from her. Heartless bitch. I had wanted to remain anonymous for as long as possible and to tease her out, but now I felt compelled to go back to her house and see what the hell was going on.
Such a nice house. Recently painted, front garden well planted. This was a home. A nice home, yet a home into which I would not be welcome. I had been standing there for about an hour. It was cold, a bitter spring day. At last a car pulled up. The rear doors burst open and children piled out. Three of them in
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