The new oven arrived in plenty of time this morning. Two lads. The driver’s mate helpfully phoned me with five minute updates on their location, starting from about 7.30am after a show last night when the earliest possible arrival slot was 8am.
They appear to genuinely think that their job is to do the absolute minimum.
“Oh mate, there’s mouse droppings. We can’t install the oven. Health and safety.”
“The droppings are about a decade old.”
“We can’t do it.”
“Can you take the old oven?”
“No mate. Contamination.”
I make them talk me through how I can install it myself, the fuckers. I keep my temper and focus on learning. I know that if I tell them what I think of them they won’t teach me. And I instinctively understand that they are masters at avoiding work, so now they’ve got their pretext they’re out the door.
“You’re very level headed,” he remarks, as the inside of my being literally boils like a cauldron of acid. “Usually people kick off, for all the good it does them.”
“I’ll be getting a refund on the installation fee,” I tell them.
“Oh that’s fine. We get paid anyway.” Ah. That’s why.
Their conversation drifts to Christmas. “I’ll be working on Christmas Eve. Gas installations. They’re the worst. People try the whole box of tricks. You’ve got old ladies breaking out the waterworks all the time. Tears all over the place.” He says it with a sort of wry reminiscence. I think of all the impossible shit he is leaving for these old people at Christmas because he’s too workshy and and too basically unkind to overlook the first strike-out in his official manual. He’s not looking at the humans. He’s looking at himself. And his diligent mate is just flailing around in his nasty wake.
I mildly suggest that perhaps they could consider just actually doing their fucking job and installing the fucking things for people rather than looking for ANY EXCUSE not to have to carry the thing down the stairs, which is the reason for this whole bullshit.
And then I hear this: “It doesn’t have mouse droppings in the system as a reason not to install,” he says to his mate when I’m in the bathroom. “I’ll just say it’s an electrical fault.” Dick.
This pair of clowns literally talk about their work as if their job is to find reasons why they can’t install people’s appliances.
Now I’ve got a broken oven still connected but pulled out and sitting in the middle of my kitchen, and I’ve got another oven in the living room not connected yet. At least I know I should hoover up the desiccated mouse droppings if I’m going to have any more workshy bastards come into my property. And perhaps the droppings aren’t so old now, says my insecurity. I suspect the little blighters have been coming back since Pickle went. But maybe that’s just because I’m traumatised by Pickle leaving.
Maybe I should put down all the traps and poison again. I kind of hate it. If it’s poison, you come home to a mouse dying in the living room. If it’s snaptraps you set it at one side of the room and find it on the other side with a tiny trail of destruction where a mouse has wrestled with a broken back for hours before finally collapsing into oblivion.
Still. They’ve made life a lot harder just through existing, those mice, if they exist. I’m angry with them now. Even though I’m sure that Tweedleknowhowdum and Tweedleknowhowdee would’ve come up with some other reason why they couldn’t carry the old oven out of the flat if it hadn’t been for the ancient mouse poo. “Wrong type of grease mate. Could be peanut oil. We can’t take it. People are allergic. Health and safety.”
I dunno. If I do a job I do it the best of my ability. You can overlook prehistoric mouse droppings if you choose to in that job – for absolute certain – and people likely do so every day. Pair of lazy unkind letter of the law bastards. Merry Christmas to them. I hope their ovens stop working. Team Know-how? Team know how to avoid the job. Eh? Eh? Oh I’ll just go home. To my flat full of ovens and desiccated mouse poo. Bastards.
Now I’m home after a two show day with another two show day tomorrow and I’m really angry again about those workshy bastards. I actually expected them to concoct some sort of bullshit like they did, because they always do if they can. But perhaps we should expect more of our big brands like Currys? I spent almost 500 quid for a pair of jokers to do fuck all and call it a living. The appliance is in my home. But it hasn’t made a difference yet, for half a grand.
I’m heating up old pizza in the working top half of the old broken oven sitting in the middle of my kitchen, and I’m contemplating how that pair of buttheads shortened their day by half an hour, while giving me a serious problem to solve before Christmas when I’ve got loads on. All because of a ten year gone infestation. Currys. Cowboys. Bunch of absolute cowboys.
Do you pull out your ovens and hoover behind them regularly? I certainly don’t. Perhaps I should’ve done in the decade since the mice lived there. But it never occurred to me I’d meet such a pair of fuckwits.
For me it falls on the number one on team Know-how. He was looking for a reason to duck the work. He found it. No thought to the knock on effects. Walking goitre.