Presumption

 

Presumption

A presumption can be anything from a guess to effrontery. What a useful word it is.

Many times, when one ‘phones for advice, or appointments, or complaints there is a point in the foothills of the conversation when details have been ascertained, that the following occurs: ‘Is it alright if I call you . . . ?’  Of course, in our house, we’re only too pleased to have this verisimilitude of social contact. Perish the day when no-one calls us by our names!

Anyway, this morning, Barry, rather grumpy, had occasion to call someone about something or other that had not been followed up, which was the cause of his irritability.

As usual, one call led to another, and his mood lightened as carefully-trained operatives or representatives – the title varies between companies – metaphorically smoothed his fevered brow.

 At one point, a cheerful young lady from Merseyside answered the ‘phone and inevitably came the inquiry, ‘Is it alright if I call you Harry?’

Oops! Barry is never rude, but his robust response was, ‘You certainly may not call me Harry. My name is Barry,’ which caused me to have a fit of the giggles.

By the end of the call, if they weren’t exactly swapping telephone numbers, they had established a friendly bond of understanding. It amazes me how  conversations can travel from business-like to personal so quickly.

Sometimes, it is unclear how people expect to be addressed. Our vets and all the staff at the practice introduce themselves by their given names and that is how we address them. The staff at our dental practice are similarly unambiguous. On the other hand, doctors and consultants occupy the middle ground. Some invite a friendlier connection, while others, perhaps a little shyer, are indeterminate and appear to stand on their dignity. I always go for the formal address, while Barry opts for more casual.

Sometimes, presumption takes the upper hand. On one occasion, I was waiting at the railway station late at night for Barry to return from London. I was listening to the radio when suddenly the passenger door was wrenched open, and a man abruptly uttered an address and told me to take him there. I spluttered and said, ‘I’m not a taxi,’ whereupon he apologised and withdrew.

 I don’t think quickly in the moment and wished later that I’d said something like, ‘Certainly, I can take you there, but I don’t know what my husband will say.’

Oh, the witty responses I could make, if only I could think fast enough.