Saturday, 5 December 2009

12 Tell Tale Tits


One of the concierges greeted me with, "Talk of the Devil", as I arrived home yesterday.

I was quite excited because I love being talked about. If it's something good obviously. It's not so smashing if it is just someone moaning about you.

This was neither. Was actually a bit boring. Turns out it was just that they'd ran out of sugar and discussed that their favourite resident* should be home soon and would probably be able to lend them some. (*That's a title I've given myself by the way. I haven't actually won an award or anything. Yet.)

I suppose it is slightly odd that my concierges know so much about me. They would certainly kick my friend's asses in a quiz about me if the questions were things like...What hours does she work?...What mood was she in on Thursday?...What are in those little brown boxes she has delivered?

I love having concierges though. It makes me feel that someone cares. Even if it's only someone that is paid to. Every good home should have at least one. They sign for your parcels. They call you taxis. They ask how your day has been. They even tell you if it is time for you to dye your hair again cause it is looking a bit shit. Those essential things.

I must admit, there was one occasion though when I wasn't so keen on the whole service...

I'd come in to the Tower late one afternoon to find that the fire alarms had been going off and the lifts were grounded. The concierge told me they probably wouldn't be in use for another 20 minutes so suggested I either walk up the stairs or wait.

Walk??? Did I hear him right??? Walk up 40+ flights of stairs??? I don't think so. I decided to go to the pub instead...just for one mind, while I waited for the lifts...

It can feel a bit weird going to the pub on your own but I'd been in no time at all when a guy started chatting to me. He bought me a drink. We chatted a bit more. He then suggested having another drink. I suppose one more wouldn't do any harm? I mean I wouldn't want to go back until it was almost definite that the lifts were working again...

A few hours later there was a worried woman in Scotland. My mum. I'd said I was calling her that night because I needed some information from a letter I'd been sent up there. Not only had I not called but I also wasn't answering any texts or calls to my phone. This wasn't like her normally reliable, daughter.

More time passed and she was starting to really panic. Particularly as a few months earlier she'd witnessed me collapsing at the dinner table and ending up in hospital (yes, I promise to reveal every detail of that embarrassing story in a future post. It will be called The Sausage Incident..). She decided that that must have happened again. Or I was dead. Or worse.

She instructed my dad to call the concierges. (Ah yes, much better if someone else hears I'm dead first?) Asks them to go up to my apartment and check on me. I'm unsure whether she gave them permission to give me the kiss of life.

"That won't be necessary" they said to my dad. "She went out. She came back in hours later. She chatted to us. She told us all her problems. She's now gone upstairs. She's safe. She's going to have a very sore head tomorrow though..."

Tell tale tits.

The next day wasn't very good. Hangover from hell, in the bad books with my mum and dad and very embarrassed about seeing my concierges. Half expected them to tell me they'd had a good chat with my parents and had all decided it would be best if I was grounded for the foreseeable future...

12 comments:

plentymorefishoutofwater said...

Ha, really funny post. And I'm intrigued as to what's in them brown boxes now. TELL US.
plentymorefishoutofwater.blogspot.com/

Bamberio said...

Oh dear! Well at least you know your concierges care about you, even though it is in a slightly weird pseudo-parenting kind of way...

What is it with parents being weird about their grown up children drinking alcohol?
Last night I ventured to my home town as my Mum's choir was throwing a bit of a soiree: cheese, biscuits and bring-your-own alcohol to numb the pain of listening to what sounded like two dozen cats getting strangled all in the name of charity.

Obviously I arrived with a bottle of wine for my own personal consumption, whilst my Dad nursed one luke warm beer all night and my boyfriend (bruised and battered from playing rugby) sat there in a daze and just stuck to water. At the end of the night, after having drunk three quarters of the bottle of wine to myself I was feeling a little bit tipsy but nothing spectacular, but I was made to feel like a drunken harlot when my Mum arrived fresh from the stage, took one look at me and the wine bottle I was clutching and loudly announced:
"Did you drink all that wine ALL BY YOURSELF? OH MY GOODNESS! YOU ALKI!"

Yes Mum, yes I did, and I'll be downing the rest of my wine in about 0.2 seconds flat to confirm to the entire village that yes, that lovely girl who used to be a Girl Guide now frequents park benches and drinks meths out of choice.

Brilliant.

Hic.

Rapunzel said...

Thanks Mr Fish! I can assure you that the reality isn't very exciting. The concierges were extremely disappointed when I opened one of them in front of them..

Bamberio, I'm loving that I don't even have to leave my own page to read someone else's funny story! Thanks for that!

Rapunzel Rapunzel x

Bamberio said...

Sorry Rapunzel, I kind of went off on one there didn't I?! Won't happen again!

Oh, looking forward to hearing about the Christmas market date.
:-)

Rapunzel said...

I want it to happen again - it's great! Don't apologise. How weird that it could happen that I'll look forward to reading my own blog to see if you've written anything?!

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