Posts Tagged ‘the bandaid approach’

Every time I hear the sound of the Postie’s bike stop outside our house to deliver some mail, I clap my hands with glee and exclaim “Cheques! Cheques!” as if somehow, just by saying the word, it would make it so. 

And every time there is a knock on the door, I think, with great hope, “Oooh, a package! Someone’s sent me a package!”. I just can’t help myself. 

Of course, we get far more bills than we ever get cheques. And that knock on the door rarely results in packages, but rather sales reps, Jevohah’s Witnesses and charity collectors. Or, if we’re really lucky, a merry band of junkies checking to see if anyone’s home. 

My husband has a very clear technique that he employs with such doorknockers. He refuses to engage with them by saying “No thank you. We don’t do business of any kind at the door” and promptly shutting the door. Short, sharp, swift: the bandaid approach. 

I, however, can’t do that. I always think of how it must be a doorknocker and have everyone open the door on you and physically baulk when they realise you’re not the Postie delivering a present. It would be very wearing on a person’s soul… 

So I try to let them down a little more gently than my husband. I usually end up saying something stupid like “Now isn’t a good time!” – as if the fact the smoke alarm is going off and there are naked, screaming children running around in the background doesn’t already tell them this. And of course that only gives the doorknocker the opportunity to say “When is a good time?” or (my favourite) “Perhaps I should come back when your husband is home?” like I’m not a responsible adult. 

And then, when I start to explain that no time is a good time and/or that I really am a responsible adult (no, really!), before I know it I’ve been caught in their web of carefully scripted sales-speak. 

So it wasn’t much of a surprise to anyone when my husband came home recently and I announced cheerfully “We’ve changed energy retailers!”.

I then added, for clarification: “The salesman really wanted to help us save money on our energy bills. I mean, he was Scottish and everyone knows that you can trust a Scot with your money!” (Albeit a Scot who was young, good-looking and charming and who was hungover like a bastard and had to sit on my front door step with a big glass of water. And who said it would just take “two minutes of my time” and twenty minutes later was still there getting me to fill in forms. But my husband didn’t need to know all that.)

My husband strangely didn’t jump for joy at the thought of reduced energy bills. Instead he stood and looked at me, blankly. So I said brightly, echoing the words of my converter: “There’s no fixed contract, a ten day cooling off period and there’s a good chance our current retailers will drop their rate to match the new offer and we won’t have to change retailers after all!” 

Still nothing. 

So I said “If I repeat all that in a Scottish accent, you’ll totally believe this was all a good idea. You really truly will.”

And then “Look, if you’re going to leave me alone in this house day in day out, you’re going to have to accept I’m going to save us some money on our energy bills from time to time.”

And then “You’re using your technique, aren’t you? Well, it’s not going to work.”

And then “Okay, okay! I’ll ring them up and cancel it. Sheesh!

For the record, my husband does do some business at the door – but only with pizza delivery men and strip-o-grams. So if my Scottish friend is keen to change my husband’s mind on the matter of energy bill reduction, he’d be well advised to come back wearing easy-to-remove clothing and carrying a pizza. You know, just sayin’.

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