A babysitting agency called to offer me "a crazy Easter special offer", which meant paying 40 quid to go on their books. The voice, not the offer, caught my attention. It wasn't your usual cold call, bored and broke smarminess. Dear me no, this voice belonged to the days of the Raj.
"This will just take a moment if you have your card to hand. I'll wait while you get your purse." Because she sounded like my nursery schoolteacher, I tried to put her off as politely as I could. But her approach reminded me of how much I hate, hate, hate being sold products by staff in stores and banks. Every time I go shopping, I am asked the same question: "Would you like to sign up for a store card? Join today and you save X per cent immediately."
Last time this happened was in Burton's, buying my husband some pants. I should add here that the reason these requests make me fume is that I have on half a dozen occasions gone through the process of applying for a store card. Filling in the form at the checkout; waiting for "authorisation" as a queue builds behind me; standing, red-cheeked, as I'm told the inevitable, "I'm sorry, you've been turned down"; and shuffling away wondering how it can be that I am able to borrow hundreds of thousands for a mortgage but am clearly too much of a risk to be loaned 20 quid to buy boxer shorts.
The lad swiped the box and looked up expectantly.
"No, I don't want a store card, thank you," I said before he could start his spiel.
"It will only take a moment."
"No. Thank you." I turned away.
"You'll make a saving of X if you join today. It only takes a . . ."
I snapped. "No. No. No. I would not like a store card. No, your head office won't approve it - they never do - and I know what will happen. So please can I just have my husband's pants?"
Someone in the queue behind me applauded.
Anyway, back on the phone, Marjory from the babysitting agency was still trying to clinch her sale. It was like being mugged by Miss Marple; no excuse I gave was good enough, no alibi ("I'm busy", "the babies are crying") convincing enough.
As I was thinking this, the lady of the manor was still speaking, urging me to "make the most of this, my dear . . .". After yet another of my long (trying to be polite) silences, she came out with her trump card: "And, just think," she sighed, vintage port on crystal. "Just think, you can surprise your husband when he gets home from work by telling him how clever you've been today and how much money you've saved him."
My jaw hit my clavicle. There she was in her oak-panelled breakfast room, shaded by giant lilies and bougainvillea, enjoying her little part-time hobby (or job, as some of us might call it), imagining that I, a mother, spend my days wafting around a little suburban maisonette praying for ways to save hubby as much of his wages as possible.
It isn't just Miss Marple, though, who in between reading Horse & Hound sees family life as an extension of a Jeeves and Wooster novel. The agent searching for our French property had some advice on how to make life in France manageable. "Your husband will obviously have to register as a professional if you move, so that he can work. The French don't take kindly to those who can't support themselves without state aid. If he can't sort out the paperwork, I'm afraid your move won't be possible. How would you survive without an income? Have you thought of that?"
"I work," I said. "I'm a journalist." There was a pause.
"Well, you might still manage," he sympathised.
