“I’ll just pass you over to my colleague, Katie,” said Calvin in his clipped South African accent. I’m getting to know these people, after all these phone calls.
Hold music. It’s funky, with the kind of trumpets you’d get when Jamiroquai was on Top of The Pops. A bass-line slaps along, and a keys player throws in some shapes that must have jazz names like augmented sixths and diminished elevenths. Staccato offbeat saxophone, rhythmic hi-hat reminds of a young- hello. Hello…
Katie says I need to talk to Terry. Terry tells me he has bad news. We can’t go back to our house until Wednesday. The kitchen pod they were hoping to deliver, actually fell off the trailer (Terry paused for dramatic effect for some reason) and got damaged. So, no kitchen, no home, no soft own bed for five more nights.
A different call, this time to our claim manager, whose name is Rico, but isn’t really Rico. His hold music is not as funky, but still carries a bit more interest than that 80s synthscape you get from a Cisco-powered call centre. Rico’s is more measured, with a little marimba and a little jazzy note of a flute in it. The Cisco one (ring the NHS to find out more) leaves you with the feeling you’re about to watch Blade Runner.
“I know the news isn’t ideal,” says Rico, very carefully, and, for the second time in two days. I make a noise that sounds like a lump of sarcasm has got stuck in my throat. Rico continues, “But we can look at finding you a h-“
“Rico!” I interrupt, loudly. (I’m not an interruptor, unless I absolutely need to be, you know, if someone‘s about to fall into the road, drive me into a lamppost, or perhaps return us to the Premier Inn.) “…I really really don’t want to go back to a hotel!” I bawl.
“Okay,” says he. Hold music.
You know the worst thing about all of this is that I have to relay it all to Sammy. I have to pause my own horror and disappointment, and dispassionately tell her the raw facts a few hours later. Then I have to watch her go through exactly the same disappointment, until we’re both on the same grotty old page. Booo.
Anyway, there we are. We’re stuck for a little while longer, but thankfully not in that hotel again. Malcolm’s kindly said we can stay until Wednesday.
The kitchen pod is apparently quite a thing. It’s basically a trailer with a fully functioning kitchen in it - including fridge, microwave, oven, washing machine, table and chairs - it’s going onto our drive, as though transported from a film set. From the outside it will look ridiculous. From the inside, hopefully we’ll be able to eat at least. Plus we’ll definitely have somewhere to listen to all this hold music.
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