I’m seriously considering hiring a personal assistant to help me run my life smoothly.  I can juggle.  I juggle well.  I don’t have much of a choice, but it’s fine, just.  I never get as far as the dust bunnies, and my obsessive compulsivity drowns in my disorganisation, but I get the main bases covered.  Parenting: check.  Living: check.  Worky stuff: check.  Dealing with the constant flow of calls from phone companies, mobile phone operators, cable TV providers, electricity folk, gas companies: no can do.  It’s too much.

The only way around this is to hire a full-time assistant to man the switchboard.  She or he (I’m an equal opportunities employer) can chat to the lads and lasses from all of these companies, make the decision to swap over on my behalf, and handle the hassle of changing back when it all goes up in flames. I cannot devote any more of my ever shortening life to this.  I simply can’t.  

UPC want to know what I like to look at online; the guy “affiliated with Microsoft” reckons my computer is causing a worldwide security crisis (surely he should be talking to someone else about this, no?), though he quickly hangs up when I ask him for a call-back number.  Eircom want me back, but are very rude on the rocky road home.  Vodafone call up to see what happened.  Why the sudden breakup, and not even a text message to let them know?  They want me back, and will do anything oh anything.  “What, Eircom were rude?,”  the lad in the call centre implodes when I mention this.  A sure promotion when the manager is told. Call centre heaven; a once-was customer bitching about the competitors.   UPC again.  Same girl.  Yes, I’ve already told you all of my deepest darkest. I thought we were friends, and now you greet me like a stranger again.

It’s exhausting talking to all of these callers, and takes quite the chuck out of a procrastinators diary.  Being typically Irish, I’d hate to be rude to any of them, and being human, I secretly find these northern and Scottish accents quite appealing in my kitchen.  Sad, but true.

So, I will enlist the help of an alter-ego to handle the heat.  She (or he) can deftly sidestep the schoolyard shenanigans of the phone companies, and endure the soul-less elevator music as we try to get back to where we started.  Let them fight it out to the end, just give me what I’m paying for, and stop making it so damned difficult, would ye?

They’ve upped the ante now.  No longer happy to hijack my phone lines; now they’re sending folk out to the door.  “I’m not selling anything,” whimpered the teenage girl who landed on my door yesterday. Busily enjoying a sneaky cig out the side of the house; I wasn’t prepared for the hi-vis on my doorstep.  Eyes warily darting to the logo, I got a “40% cheaper” in so high pitched a tone, as the neighbours dobermen started up.  Bloody hell, I may have to stop smoking soon too.  That’s all I need.  Now, had she been selling something, it could have been so different. I do like me a bit of shopping, I do.  And from the comfort of my own home? I can always use another sketching of John Paul, or even that new lad – Ratsomethingorother.

I’m an easy sell, especially for venders with sweet northern lilts.  No doubt there is some study somewhere in marketing-land that says 30-somethings in the Wesht of Ireland lilt at the lilt.  I’m no stereotype, but where do I sign…. And when can we meet?

The thing is that these sweet talking little honeys can tell us just about anything over the phone – let’s face it, they are probably paid a pittance, and work on commission.  But, there is no proof of their promise, unless you can convince the manager that you will never manage to speak to, and if you do, they will never follow it up, to trawl the recordings to hear the flirty lilters promising allsorts of wild and wonderful things.  We will relieve you from carrot peeling duties immediately, and whisk you into a multi-megabyte world where accents are lovely and litly, and we will do this with twice the download speed of the last lad, and it’ll be free.  Yes, sirree.

It’s all so tempting.  Do you promise it’ll be good, really?  You see, I’ve no idea what you jut said, but you are very convincing.  Help.  Somebody save me.  I seem to be entering another contract.  Jeepers.  I said never again, didn’t you hear?  Yo-yo dieting is one thing, but yo-yo phone companying, yo-yo the channels’ing, yo-yo, yo-yo. Yikes.

Ok, you seem unsure, he drawls.  Sign up now, and I’ll drop the lilt a tone or two.  Mmmmm.

You sound unsure, he lulls, don’t worry, you can always change your mind.  The cool-down period sounding like a beer garden on a sunny Sunday.  Beware, fellow fools, beware.  The 10 days promised over the phone are your word against theirs, and the angry lady from Coolock ain’t in flirty form.  She doesn’t give two flying fiddlers that you’re practically wed to the lad that cast the dream.  No, you can’t talk to him.  He no longer exists.  You ate him, didn’t you?

What do you mean I only had three days to cool-off.  What do you mean the service has already been moved.  Who are you?  Leave me alone.

Personal assistant required, please, soon.