Standing Room | 4 April 2009

I live in fear of that peculiar sharp intake of breath I seem to hear whenever I ask service men actually to service anything I own that doesn’t work.

I live in fear of that peculiar sharp intake of breath I seem to hear whenever I ask service men actually to service anything I own that doesn’t work. It’s not a promising sound. Dishwashers that stop washing dishes, internet servers that fail to serve, waste disposals that spew sewage wrist-deep back up into the sink, cars that make curious grinding noises — all these are problems I want dealt with speedily and with total confidence. I also want the person in charge of mending them to have a far superior knowledge of the buggered piece of machinery than I do. That is their job; their specialist field. Not mine. I only want to be greeted with perky ‘seen-it-all-before’ optimism. I want service men that self-medicate themselves with happy pills.