Door knockers

Posted on | February 8, 2005 | 3 Comments

After a long, sweaty, contemplative afternoon cleaning an old apartment with many happy memories, I come home to settle in for a beer and a few blogs (everyone please welcome Christian to the world of MT). On cue, this guy comes to the door with a gold watch nearly blinding me, makes a joke about whether I could handle saving some money given my look, and proceeds to demand I sign up with AAPT. I tell him I just moved in and spent an hour last week reading every phone company’s details – and that I’m happy with Telstra (not strictly true, iprimus were too busy to take my call, but whatever). No matter how great the deal is, I’m sick of anything to do with service companies and my home, I say. I’m not interested.

He refuses to leave. He wants to explain to me why his company’s better. He hasn’t heard anything I’ve said. As he reads through the brochure for me, I parrot the exact rate I’m getting with Telstra on each point, and given that he’s not looking so hot anymore, sarcastically he commends me for my good memory. And still doesn’t leave. He wants a reason why I don’t want his amazing deal. He looks inside the house, sees the ibook and asks if I’m studying. I say I’m working, to emphasise how inconvenient his presence is. He asks me what I do, I say I’m an academic. I’m getting a bit angry, because he’s now realised I live by myself, and I’d be mad not to save money given my pathetic lonely state. It’s become a stand off. He ends up saying, is the only reason you won’t sign because you’re an academic and you don’t need to save money?

Huh?

I say no, it’s because I can’t be bothered. Again I try to appeal to his human side – that I’ve been moving house and I’m tired of everything to do with it. He then confides that he’s about to move from The Emporium in Fortitude Valley to The Woolstore in Tenerrife (for non-Brisvegans, this can be translated as moving from a sterile, brand new building in an aspiring to be cosmopolitan transformed working class area to a better quality, more established, rugby league player inhabited building in another transformed working class area).

Sensing a way out, I say, “Well, with all that rent you’ll be paying, at least you’ll be saving money on phone bills”.

He says: “I don’t mind paying a lot of rent because I enjoy making this much money”.

My sympathy escalates still more.

Why did I even need a reason to get rid of this guy?

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