Really small talk

I often complain that Bert doesn't have the knack of pleasant chit-chat. It is my belief that he only speaks when necessary (and that's according to his definition of necessary, not anyone else's). Yesterday I decided to prove this, and started to record everything he said to me. This is a complete transcript of the first couple of hours (after that I told him what I was doing and then we had an argument about whether he'd said these things quite like this - reader, he did).

1. You needed to get that Magpie [recycling] box out earlier.

2. You should have opened this [steamy bathroom] window.

3. We need to go, like now.

4. Do you know how much electricity your PC uses per year, being on standby?

5. You need to book a day to cut down brambles with me.

6. You need to set time aside for pointing, and it needs to be at 5 o'clock.

In that last one, Bert didn't mean that I would be pointing at him, saying "You never say anything nice!" or something like that. No, he meant cleaning up the pointing on his brickwork that he was about to do. You have to clean it up before it sets hard, otherwise it looks messy. He couldn't do it himself, because after laying the bricks he was off out for an all-day bender.

Later today we are off for a naming ceremony for our friends' new baby Grover. I am deeply honoured to have been asked to be her guide parent (hey - I'm a GP!). I'm almost certain they're not following the trend to acquire 'trophy' god/guide parents.

In the meantime Bert has just gone out to retrieve his mobile phone that he left in the pub last night. As he set off he was moaning that what with that and the baby naming, he wasn't going to get any bricklaying done today.

Stamp of (dis)approval

Bert had an altercation with the Post Office today. He has sent a number of recorded delivery letters recently, all of which have failed to arrive.

I hardly need tell you that these are letters of complaint. He is writing to the electricity board to complain about them digging up his (our) garden to lay their cables without consent.

Hmmm - maybe he sent my Valentine card by recorded delivery, as that failed to arrive too.

Anyway, today he phoned up to complain about the non-arrival of his mail. They said there is nothing they can do to trace the letters. "But what about using the tracking numbers I was given when I sent the letters recorded delivery?" he asked. "No. Tracking numbers are no good. We can only track a letter using its tracking number once it has been received and signed for."

"Hang on," Bert said. "What, then, is the point of a tracking number?" "Well sir, once a letter has been signed for, we use the tracking number to ascertain whether the letter was delivered late or not. But until it has been signed for, the tracking number has no significance whatsoever. Indeed, it does not even appear in our system. We keep no record of tracking numbers."

"Okay," said Bert. "So what about my letters which appear to have disappeared? Do I get compensation for those?" "Well that depends," they replied. "We offer £10 compensation for letters that are delivered, i.e. signed for, more than 15 days late. But if the letter is lost, i.e. never signed for, then we offer a book of stamps in compensation. To claim this, you need to send in the original ticket with the tracking number." "So hang on," said Bert, "I send in the original ticket - using a stamp - and then you send me a book of stamps in return?" "Exactly." "So when is a letter lost, and when is it late?" asked Bert. "A letter is lost if it is not delivered, i.e. signed for, within 30 days," replied the Post Office.

They went on to explain that recorded delivery letters are far more likely to end up 'lost' than your average first or second class letter. This is because recorded delivery letters are sent in batches, and big companies receive a batch but do not sign for the individual letters. Often the letters do arrive, but the Post Office doesn't know about it.

The long and short of it was that the PO was prepared to compensate Bert for his last letter, which was officially late (i.e. more than 15 but less than 30 days late). "But what about my earlier letters?" "No, they're not late any more. They're missing. We don't compensate for missing letters." Which takes us back to the book of stamps. "A book of stamps? Is that it?" Bert asked incredulously. "Well, they are first class," pointed out the PO. "Oh come on," he remonstrated. "Would you consider - instead - compensating me with the monetary value of a book of stamps? I can at least go out for a pint then and feel like I've achieved something with this phone call." They laughed. But no, stamps were as far as they were prepared to go.

As Bert pointed out, a book of stamps represented twelve more opportunities for the Post Office to lose his mail.

Revelations

I'm seeing a career transition coach at the moment. Every time we meet, I come away feeling hugely positive and capable of doing anything I want to do. I think I'd like to be a coach and make people feel good, too.

For anyone else out there who is thinking about coaching, you might want to try my little quiz first.

So you want to be a coach?

1. Someone you know says that they would like to become a coach. You say:

A) That sounds very interesting. Have you investigated how you might achieve that goal?
B) How are you going to pay for that?
C) No-one is going to pay you to do coaching at your age

2. The same person tells you that one way of becoming a coach is to do an MA. You respond:

A) That sounds great, and is it the best way of enabling you to fulfil your goals? What alternatives are there?
B) Do you have the money to pay for that?
C) Is it really worth paying for that at your age?

3. When you are simply trying to be helpful, the person you are talking to accuses you of being negative. You respond by saying:

A) I'm sorry you don't find my comments helpful. How could I be more supportive?
B) It's not good for you if I just agree all the time.
C) I'm just being devil's advocate. Someone's got to point out the pitfalls.

4. The same person indicates that their coach makes them feel better, whereas you seem to make them feel worse. How do you respond?

A) We could explore why I am making you feel worse, or perhaps it would be better if you find a different coach.
B) You're not paying me to make you feel better.
C) You know what I'm like. You shouldn't ask me about stuff if you don't like the answer.

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Mostly A: Wow. With the right training you could become a coach.
Mostly B: Wow. With the right training you could become Bert.
Mostly C: Oh no! Bert isn't just the devil's advocate, he's the Anti-coach.

Spot the oxymoron

We visited our pals the Scouse Gits yesterday.

At one point, Bert started debating the nature of empathy. (Yeah, you're right. We had started drinking by this time.)

In order to illustrate his point, Bert turned to the Gits' 19 year old daughter.

"Hey [beautiful daughter of very close friends], you'd piss on me if I was on fire, wouldn't you?"

"Of course!" she replied politely.

Bert, suddenly empathising with how this might sound to parental ears, sought to correct any potential misunderstandings.

"Only if I'm on fire, though."

Is that a banana in your pocket?

"Can I have your banana?"

The woman behind the counter didn't know quite how to respond to Bert's strange request. "Er...what?," she replied.

Let me explain. Yesterday Bert had an appointment in the dermatology department of our local hospital. This has nothing whatsoever to do with his recent elbow / hand injuries. Amongst his many other complaints**, Bert suffers with lichen planus in his mouth (yes, I know you didn't really want to know that).

Anyway, when Bert turned up at the hospital the conversation went like this:

Bert: "I've got an appointment with [Mr. X] the dermatologist."
Recep (to her colleague): "Oh, it's another one of those letters. That's four now"

[We think she meant one of those letters that told people they had an appointment.]

Recep: "I'm sorry, but [Mr. X] isn't here today."
Bert: "What do you mean, he's not here? Is he ill?"
Recep: "He just isn't here."
Bert: "Oh, you mean he's off doing 'private practice'."
Recep: "I can only confirm that [Mr. X] is not here. I'm sorry you've had a wasted journey."
Bert: "Well, can I have your banana?"
Recep (looking a little upset): "Er...what? Why?"
Bert: "Well, I've just walked here and it took me an hour. Now I'm starving."

He came away with a new appointment but sadly no banana. Whatever is the NHS coming to?

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**A doctor friend of ours once quipped that Bert was a doctor's worst nightmare: a hypochondriac who does actually have a lot wrong with him.