Personal Assistant Required For Disabled Gentleman
some light housework and personal care required.
That was what the advert said. I should report it to Trading Standards or someone. I ought to have guessed something was awry when I drew up at the house. Large, rambling, slightly run-down. What do they call it? Shabby chic or genteel poverty or some such.
So, anyway, I rang the doorbell and this old guy eventually opens the door. Big handlebar moustache. Suit and tie. Chest the size of the Isle of Dogs. Obviously thought he was the dog’s as well, by the way he looked down his nose at me.
“Ah, Geraldine, I presume.” He barked. You could have heard him half way to Wales
He literally marched me double quick time through the house into the ‘back parlour’ he called it, where he proceeded to outline the duties expected of me on a daily basis. I kept waiting for him to introduce the disabled gentleman, but he rabbited on and rabbited on.
Eventually, I said,
“Sorry, can I just stop you there? Who will I be working for? You’ve said light dusting, making the bed, running the vacuum round, walking the dog, washing up from breakfast, making some lunch. That’s not a problem, but I was wondering, the ad said some personal care. I’ll want to meet the gentleman in question to discuss the sort of personal care he needs.”
While I’d been speaking, Mr Huntly had been glowering at me from beneath large, bushy eyebrows, moustache twitching away as he pursed and unpursed his lips.
“Who will you be working for?” He barked when I’d finished talking. “Who d’you think? Me, of course. I need me moustache trimmed daily.”
“Oh!” Says I, taken aback. “But the ad said disabled.” My imagination was throwing up all kinds of disabilities that weren’t obvious at first glance, when he stood up and started tapping his leg.
“War wound. Shrapnel. Bloody Japs. Burma
“So it’s not really a personal assistant you want, is it, Mr Huntly? It’s a … housekeeper.”
“Call it what you like, my girl. Job’s yours if you want it. Strong arm. Pretty face. Chassis’s in good nick. Wouldn’t complain about having you in barracks.”
Well, I was out of there like a shot.
