Back when i was a younger, more energetic Garius, I worked as a Glazier in a medium sized English county town.
There are several things my time in that trade have left me with. Many are useful. I can generally use power tools without looking like a twat, for example, and i also know how to make that handy tradesman’s teeth-sucking sound that instantly communicates to people that something they’ve just asked for is both tricky and expensive and fills them with a suitable amount of fear and foreboding.
Some things, however, are less useful, and one of those is a deepseated and passionate hatred of anyone who uses a house name instead of a number. So much so that whenever i meet someone who matches this criteria it doesn’t matter how nice and reasonable they are, somewhere inside of me a little voice screams out that i should punch them repeatedly in the face.
This admittedly very silly hatred exists because, as the main glazing company in the town (and easily the one with the best reputation for quality), the firm i worked for was generally the one that the residents of the more affluent villages in the area would go to when they were looking to have home improvements done.
As a result, my fellow glaziers and myself would often find ourselves dispatched out into the wilderness, tasked with fitting full length mirrors to private gyms, stained glass panels to front doors or seven foot high glass partitions to trendy living rooms.
Every job was a challenge, but one that we faced with the stoicism and reserve that our race is famous for. Feet were wiped carefully to avoid staining fluffy white carpets, horribly spoilt yappy dogs discreetly kicked aside and randy rich housewives tactfully refused. Nothing would delay or prevent us from accomplishing our task.
Nothing, that is, except for addresses with house names with no fucking numbers.
Oh yes ma’am. I’m sure your postman knows whereabouts you are exactly on this road. Well thats wonderful for him - but then remember he does have to visit every fucking house on this lane anyway - a lane which, by the way, is about eight miles long in case you need a bit of trivia for your next dinner party.
And yes sir, I’m sure you’re right that everyone in the village knows where your house is, but sadly, if you’ll recall, as a firm we aren’t actually based in this pretty little village of 200 people.
What’s that? The brass plaque that says “Rose Priory” next to the front door? Oh yes! You’re right sir - its very clear. I must admit that me and the boys did admire that once we’d reached the top of your two hundred metre driveway.
The sign you put up on the tree when you moved in ma’am? Yes we did actually notice that - once we’d got to the end of the road and managed to turn the rather large glazing van we’re driving round without getting it stuck in a ditch or rammed by a Land Rover. It’s only visible if you’re coming from the East, you see. Oh, and I say “notice,” but what i really mean is “dug out.” Just a guess here, but did you move here last Winter? You did? Ah right! Well Dave back there would like to explain the difference to you between “Deciduous” and “Evergreen” trees once he’s finished picking leaves and twigs out of his hair.
Fucking wankers the lot of them.
Ahem.
Yeah, so anyway, house names. Bad idea.
twitch
