As I type this morning, I am actually in tears, which is ridiculous as I am a grown up, and grown ups should only cry at movies, death and when they’re dumped.
But cry I do, as I’ve just tried and failed to make two very important phone calls about my mortgage to Halifax.
Halifax is based in Scotland. They clearly don’t have call centres on the other side of the world either, as I have just spoken to the most broadly Scottish accented guy in the whole world.
I spoke to him first and he put me through to the wrong department. Before he did this I explained that I was hard of hearing and he did the usual which was speak at the same speed and shout.
When I got through to him again, he almost seemed pissed off that I was calling again and proceeded to shout and speak even more quickly than before.
And this set off a reflex that I’ve had since I went very deaf. It’s the tears of frustrating reflex. First my throat clogs up so I cannot speak, then tears spring into my eyes and then my hand hangs up the phone while I try hard to squeeze out the words, ‘I’m sorry, this just isn’t working’.
Urgh, even thinking about it makes me sad… and cross.
Mainly cross actually.
Cross that I can’t get things done. Cross that I am up against a deadline to sort out this stupid buildings insurance and cross that I am now, aged 30, going to have to track down Pa, who is on holiday, to help me with this.
Being independent is insanely important to me. Still needing to ask my parents to make my phone calls does not help that.
So here I am. Sat at my desk at work, trying and failing not to cry.
It’s pathetic I know, but I can’t help it. It’s the tears-of-frustration reflex.
Time for a cup of tea I think. Time for a cup of tea.