Posted on by JonnyB

I telephone the Cheerful Builder.

There is some awkward small talk. I am not much good at small talk, and worry about this. I am constantly concerned that people will think me rude if I do not do small talk properly. A typical conversation of mine might go like this:

Person answering telephone: “Hello? Emer…”

Me (JonnyB): “Hullo!!! How are you these days?”

PaT (Person answering telephone (see above)): “Er – I’m quite well, thank you.”

Me: “Good.” (Pauses for thought). “It’s absolutely chucking it down here in Norfolk – has been for hours.”

PaT: “Really?”

Me: “Yes – although they say it will clear up later.”

PaT: “Look – do you want fire, police or ambulance?”

Me: “Oh. Ambulance please. And fire.”

The Cheerful Builder engages in my small talk dutifully. But he knows very well why I have rung. I ask if he is generally free to do any building work in the near future. He hummms and hawwws and sounds generally regretful that he is busy until April 2035.

“Oh that’s a shame,” I hear myself saying. “I just thought I’d give you a call first – thought it would be fun working together again, you know – drinking coffee together… talking about music…”

I tail off. In a minute I will be asking him if we can still be friends, or if we can continue to sleep together with no commitment on either side. More small talk and the conversation is over. The lads on site continue their work; the project plods on like a glacier with depression.

Posted on by JonnyB

I lost my temper.

It’s fair to say that I am normally a placid sort of person. But I have been under great stress recently: I am living on a building site with an eight month-old baby and no proper facilities for watching television.

I gazed at the bricks. They were clearly the wrong bricks. I am not a bricklayer or other brick expert, but I know the difference between pink bricks and red bricks, and these are pink bricks and the rest of the wall is red bricks, and not only will they not match but I refuse to allow any wall on my property to be finished with effeminate materials.

At which point I rang the Methodical Builder and lost my temper. I screamed and shouted and used the objectionable f-word, then I used the objectionable f-word some more times, then called him a cunt before putting the phone down on him. Then I realised that I didn’t feel that much better than before, so I called him again and used the objectional f-word several more times.

The Health Visitor appeared. It was the day of Baby Servalan’s periodic checkup, where they establish whether she is living in a good home environment with stable parents. I used some more objectionable f-words and put the phone down again.

We walked through the kitchen past the official HM Gas Inspector, who was using words like ‘unbelievable’ and ‘disgraceful’ and taking photographs of the work done so far in order to send a report to the authorities. Short of three roadies for the Stereophonics appearing and starting to set up equipment in my back garden, it’s safe to say that the day had reached a nadir.

We passed the baby inspection with flying colours. You clearly have to be living in a wet cardboard box next to a nuclear power plant with three drug dealers and Maxine Carr in order to get a negative report from these people. It is worrying. Had it been my decision I would have had her taken immediately into care.

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“Weaaarrghhhhh!!!” concludes the Baby.

“She has been like this for days,” I explain to the LTLP. “Crying a lot and impossible to deal with. I think,” I reflect, drawing on all my medical knowledge, “that she might be teething.”

“Are you sure she’s not hungry?”

“Definitely not. She had a milk only earlier.”

The LTLP gives the Baby a milk. The Baby quietens and looks content. I am crestfallen. I have been in charge for only one week and I have almost killed her through malnutrition.

“We went to the Village Pub yesterday,” I offer, in my defence. “She had some of my chips.”

The conversation sort of peters out for a bit.

“Did you miss me, at all?” she asks finally.

“Of course I did!” I reply, stung by the question. “Did you bring me a present?”

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Lunchtime at the Village Pub.

I am in a particularly good mood, because a) it is lunchtime and b) I am in the Village Pub. For a moment I cast aside the raven-black shadow of my abandonment.

The Chipper Barman pours me a pint of Wherry, my usual beer of choice.

“Wherry!!!” I sing delightedly, in the manner of US pop star Ray Lamontagne. “Wherry wherry wherry wherry wherry.”

There is stunned silence at my little joke – many people in the Village Pub are unaware that I am able to sing.

“I’ve been… serrrrrrrvved by a wooomannn,” I continue. The Chipper Barman looks a bit pissed off at this, and slopes off to deal with another customer.

“Stop singing please,” instructs Short Tony in a sharper tone than I would have thought necessary. He then starts recounting some minor anecdote of the ‘you really had to be there’ variety. These are never very satisfactory, so I turn to the newspaper instead.