Sales. Salesman on his phone.

Sales. Salesman on his phone

We’ve been having loads of work done to our house recently. It has required lots of people coming in to give us quotes, and a lot of sales pitches being thrown our way. Last week, this absolute gem of a sales pitch happened-I think it’s fair to say that it was a pure showcase of how to suck at sales! For no reason other than my own amusement, I’ve decided to present it to you in the form of a play script. Enjoy!

Synopsis: The main character, Lucy, has been invited out for the morning, with people she doesn’t see very often. She is excited. But her husband has arranged for someone to come and quote for something else to be done to the house. He was supposed to be there to deal with it, but as usual, has naffed off to do something ‘more important,’ (which of course isn’t to sit in his office drinking coffee and watching funny YouTube videos on his phone.) The husband has sent a polite text to the man coming to do the quote, to say that Lucy needs to be gone from the house by a certain time, but is more than sure that this will still give the man plenty of time to do the quote.

Characters:

Jason: Salesman of the year.

Lucy: Frazzled housewife, excited by her unexpected morning outing. A bit flaky.

Lucinda: The voice in Lucy’s head, saying what Lucy ought to be saying.

The husband: Only heard as a voice on the phone.

Extras: Two small boys, no real part other than making a massive mess in the front room.

Setting the scene: The doorbell rings. Lucy jumps up to answer it, pleased that she is dressed, made up, and ready this early. Not pleased that the house is a tip, despite her continued efforts to the contrary. Enter Jason through the front door.

Jason: Hi, nice to meet you, I’m Jason.

Lucy: Hi! Come in, sorry about the mess! (laughs nervously.) Ok, so we were hoping you could do this (gestures) but upstairs in one of the bedrooms, if that’s ok?

Jason: Alright, do you want to show me?

Both go upstairs. Lucy shows Jason what work she would like done. Jason gives her two options and demands that she make up her mind NOW.

Lucy: It’s hard to decide without my husband here, could you quote for both options please?

Jason: (Huffs and puffs in a dramatic manner. Rolls his eyes HARD, like they’re actually going to roll out of his head. Mutters incoherently.)

Lucy: Oh, I’m really sorry… Ok, don’t quote for both then, um, just the first option will be fine…

Lucinda: Don’t fucking apologise to him-why can’t he quote for both??????

Jason: (with pure venom in his voice) So, do you just want to get out then??? You know, leave me be, because apparently I’m encroaching on YOUR day, YEA????

Lucinda: The FUCK YOU SAY??????????

Lucy: Oh, yea, sure… (scuttles from the room.)

Lucinda: What the fuck is this guys problem?? He seemed fine when he came in, he went from nought to maniac in the space of two seconds.

Upstairs, Jason is on the phone, now loudly complaining about Lucy to whoever is on the other end. Lucy has no idea why. Lucy’s phone rings, it’s the husband seeing how the quote went, and not at all drinking coffee and watching YouTube.

Husband: So, what did he say?

Lucy: (Whispering) I don’t know, he’s still here, and he just ordered me out of my own fucking bedroom really rudely, like, he just turned, it was really weird. And now he’s slagging me off to someone on the phone, and I have no idea why…

Husband: (also whispering) Whaaaaat??? What a dick, I don’t understand???

Lucy: Why are you whispering too? He can’t hear you, he can only hear me.

Husband: Oh yea! I’m whispering because you are.

Lucy: I don’t want him to hear me, I think he’s a bit psycho??

Husband: Tell him to leave

Lucinda: Yea, tell him to fuck off, we definitely won’t be using his company after this, so why let him stay?

Lucy: I don’t want to interrupt him, he might hurt me with his tape measure…?

Husband: Ok, phone me when he’s gone.

Lucy waits nervously for Jason to come downstairs again. When he comes down, he seems pleasant again for a second.

Jason: Ok, I’ll write these up for you, where shall I go?

Lucy points him in the direction of the kitchen.

Lucy: Sooooo, will you email the quotes to us later…?

Jason: (Suddenly looks venomous again.) NOPE.

Lucinda: This guy is definitely a psycho, retreat, retreat.

Jason is in the kitchen for ages, despite agreeing with the husband via txt, that he’d write the quotes up and email them, so that Lucy can go out. Lucy waits for as long as possible, beginning to wonder if Jason is deliberately taking ages because he has been told she needs to be somewhere… In the end, after now being phenomenally late, she asks him politely to leave.

Lucy: Errrr, I’m so sorry…

Lucinda: STOP fucking apologising!!!!!!!!

Lucy: But, um, if you could email us the quotes later, I’d be really grateful. I actually need to be somewhere else now…

Jason: (Looks at Lucy like he’d like to shoot her in the head. Starts angrily throwing things into a bag. Huffs and puffs, and in a final dramatic flourish, wordlessly pushes past her, and STOMPS down the hallway-deliberately banging into things-and slams the door behind him. He slams it so hard the house shakes, and the extras are momentarily distracted from mess making and rendered terrified.)

Lucy’s anxiety is at fever pitch.

Lucinda: Why can’t I get the ‘choose life’ speech from Trainspotting out of my head? Except I’m replacing everything with ‘choose not to be a twat, Jason.’ ‘Choose a job you like, Jason, choose a career you like, Jason. Choose not to come into someone’s home and make them feel uncomfortable, Jason…’ Such a great monologue that. Although, I actually think the monologue from Trainspotting 2 was better, but it was a shitter film… I’m digressing. He totally sucked at his job by the way…

End of scene. Lucy is a mixture of anxious and bemused, still wondering how Jason intended to get the quotes to her, as he had stomped from the house without answering her question. She wonders whether he was actually a salesman at all, maybe he was just a random posing as one. In any case, he totally showcased How To Suck At Sales!

 

mental health

I’ve been telling myself for quite a long time now, that ‘it’s ok, you’re just a little bit mental at the moment, you’ll be alright soon.’ Because often, we find ourselves tired, stressed, juggling 6.2 billion plates with just two hands (often while the other halves casually spin just the one on the tip of their finger-they totally have the other hand free to catch it with, if it falls,) and it all can make us feel just slightly crazy.

Except I noticed that I was telling myself week after week that the mentalness was going to go away, and making more excuses when it didn’t. I needed ‘that event’ over with, or when I’d had ‘that day to myself,’ that’s when I was going to be fine. Except, I still wasn’t. Before I knew it, I was in a painfully familiar pit of not wanting to leave the house, making excuses not to leave the house, crying in secret, and trying to hide the fact that I wanted to be crying the rest of the time too, but didn’t want to do it in front of the children, and everyone else I know, and dwelling on the fact that I wished I’d punched Becky from school in the face in 1993, when she said the best thing that could happen to me would be for me to be run over by a bus. I know we are told that violence solves nothing, but responding like that would’ve been really fucking satisfying.

Here is an example of my stream of consciousness, when I’m particularly batshit:
*Wake up, ears are ringing, head feels foggy for no reason*
‘This is going to be a terrible day.’
‘Don’t leave the house today because BAD THINGS WILL HAPPEN.’
‘The children won’t eat anything decent all day. Go on, give them the full sugar breakfast, and then they’ll get diabetes, and you’re going to feel like SHIT.’
‘Ooooh, what’s that on the news? Someone has a terrible illness? You better add that to the list of illnesses you need to be vigilant for, because the children can’t be left without a mother.’
‘Well, they could be, because you’re actually a shit one, and they’d be better off without you.’
‘In fact, if you did die, nobody would actually notice, because nobody really cares.’
‘Remember not to go out today, or if you do, just go to the park and stay in one corner, where you don’t have to talk to any other humans-you are shit at making friends, and you’ll make a dick of yourself.’
‘Oh, you’re looking forward to Mr W coming home are you? I don’t really know why he stays with you-you’re completely dragging him down. He should be with someone much prettier, thinner, funnier, and just, well, better, than you. He’ll probably be off at some point and then what will happen, you’ll have NOBODY.’
‘Stop snapping at the children, you used to be so patient. There’s another good quality you can tick off the list, that you don’t have anymore.’
‘Conserve energy for bedtime, because the children have decided that as you’re the worst mother ever, they’re going to bring you to your knees-you totes deserve it though, for being an all around crappy waste of space.’
‘By the way, while you’re being selfishly self absorbed with these thoughts, and only thinking about yourself, your mum told the eldest off for saying bugger. He’s replied with “it’s not as bad as fuck, nanny.” who swears in front of their fucking kids?’

Like I said-totally batshit. And it’s just soooooooo exhausting. I start every day feeling like I’ve run a marathon. Stuff hurts, that has no reason to be hurting. My eyes ache, my throat feels course, my stomach cramps, and my arms and legs feel like they’re made of lead. Everything sends me into fight or flight-even just handing over money at the till at the shop. The thought of coming to my laptop to write something, was making me feel sick. Plus, not going anywhere, and feeling like I was on the precipice of some kind of life destroying incident all the time, was becoming too much.

I went out last week to get my hair cut, which I was actually looking forward to, (I took this as a step forward,) until the hairdresser heard ‘can you please cut it a couple of inches below my shoulders,’ as ‘do whatever the fuck you want!!’ and gave me a long bob. I didn’t panic as much as I thought I would, about a) actually going there, and b) not being able to wear my hair in the bun it’s been sporting everyday for the last 5 years. It goes into a half bun now, so I resemble a mental hipster, minus ironic beard (unless you count the odd PCOS related chin hair flapping around.)

I’m also seeing a person. Someone actually qualified to deal with the mental. Someone taking my mental seriously, who has a plan. I feel better knowing there’s a plan, because although I’ve tried to embrace the crazy as being one of my quirks, and as a part of me, I also can’t and don’t want to, live with it to this extent anymore. So, it’s time to take a stand.

A serious one from me today, a little reflection of the hardest times that having a baby took me to…

There was a woman who lived in the south of England. She was wife of a Keifer Sutherland lookalike, and slave to the role of parenting-but today, she was reflecting on being slave to the role of parenting-there was a time when she never thought she’d get that far…

She remembered a time where she was handed a baby she had just given birth to, and instead of the rush of love she was promised, she felt numb. Empty, cold, nothing…

She remembered feeling like she’d made the biggest mistake of her life, but also the headfuck fear that came with that, that NOBODY MUST EVER KNOW SHE FELT THAT WAY OR THAT THOUGHT EVER ENTERED HER HEAD.

She remembered the feelings of detachment from everyday life that she started to feel, and ignoring them.

She remembered staying awake all night feeling like her heart would beat out of her chest, with the fear that she was going mad. Fear that she couldn’t look after her children. Fear that she’d failed in the one job she had had ever been sure she’d be fucking fabulous at.

She remembered the auditory hallucinations, closely followed by the visual ones.

She didn’t know how she’d work through her feelings about her body and her permanently changed status-how she’d never feel the same about herself again.

She remembered the negative intrusive thought, and how that made her feel she was a danger to everyone around her.

She remembered gagging on any food that came near her mouth.

She remembered the exhaustion-the bone aching, collapse-on-the-floor at any given second exhaustion, but also the nervous energy that made her pace for hours around the streets where she lived-terrified of being trapped inside her house, and inside her own head.

She remembered thinking that she must tell someone, but was worried that telling someone meant that she would be called crazy, have her children taken away, spend the rest of her life locked away. She started by telling the Keifer Sutherland lookalike. He smiled, and told her she’d be ok, and went with her to the Drs.

The Dr smiled at her and told her she’d be ok, and gave her some pills. He told her ‘right, there’s no need to go looking back to 1994 and digging into your past or whatever, to try and ‘find yourself’ or whatever is popular nowadays-this is normal for new parents.’ She still wasn’t ok.

She desperately phoned the out of hours Dr in the night-she couldn’t imagine how she could live a life like this, if it meant feeling like this for ever. The out of hours Dr was cross. ‘You’ve already seen a Dr about this, why are you phoning again??’ She apologised for being a nuisance-she expected a kindly response of ‘it’s ok, it’s what we are here for,’ but was met with a stony silence-the Dr was still cross evidently. The Dr threw some diazepam her way and told her she was incredibly busy. She’s never forgotten that Dr and her total lack of compassion.

She remembered when the shit totally hit the fan, and her mum came to take her children away for a few days. The relief mixed with an indescribable guilt.

She remembered a therapist-one of the nicest people she had ever met. She doesn’t remember a lot of what they talked about, but she remembered that she knew she could tell him anything, and that he eventually made her start to see light at the end of the tunnel. She feels touched by his kindness every day, and knows she will never forget him.

She remembered her heart rate slowing, keeping down her first meal, and the help of people who understood, and even those who didn’t really, but tried.

She promised herself that if she ever came through it, she’d #cherisheverymoment, but in reality, children can still be total shits, if you’re in recovery from postnatal anxiety or not-so she still struggles to #fuckingcherishallofit but she’s grateful that she got better enough to try.

She likes to write funny stories about being a parent, but the reality is, sometimes she just wants to watch Greys Anatomy in bed in her pyjamas, and cry because Denny dies (which is really shit,) and she doesn’t want to see anyone, or do anything, and she feels really quite crap. She doesn’t always feel that stuff is funny. But some of the time it is.

She wants others to know that if they feel the same way, or any way that makes them feel they want help-to keep bloody asking. Screw the shitty out of hours Dr-if they don’t get it, ask someone else. If they don’t get it, keep going. Do not stop until someone goes ‘yep-totally fucking get it-I’m sticking with you till this shit is done.’ Keep. Asking. For. The. Help. You haven’t failed, and you aren’t shit-motherhood is a head wreck and an army to help you through will always help.

Much love. xx
#TimetoTalk