And don't call me sausage

It’s true, they really have started talking to us like three year olds. People on the phone, when you’re trying to get hold of your bank manager “Hold for me, sweetie?” The kind you wouldn’t know from a bar of soap, but they’re calling you angel, honey, darling and cupcake. And sausage.

Sausage is new to me, and I’ve been called Nunu which is apparently a compliment, but was also the name of her dog. What’s more, while they’re calling you angel and cupcake, they’re invariably calling you to tell you something bad, and when it’s something to do with money, the sweeties and my angels come so thick it makes your head spin.

It softens the blow, they say, it shows that we’re perky and cheerful, gag me with a headset.

It’s always women, it’s not something guys do, except for the occasional bud, mate, broer and my cousie. And what makes it worse is that call centres train them to repeat the customer’s name every few minutes, so the most trivial of telephone conversations becomes a long drawn out saga,

“Ms Instigator, my sweetie, your debit orders were declined, it’s true I’m afraid, my darling, I’m going to have to repossess your house angel, sorry.”

This darling meringue thing is admittedly sometimes caused when you can’t remember the other person’s name, you cover it up by becoming all warm and gooey and sincere.

I miss the dour old days sometimes. Actually I miss the days before I had three phones.