Page 21 of The Happiness Blueprint
That afternoon I was called back to the big property the team finished two bathrooms in last week. The team tiled and fitted a large en suite bathroom with a his and hers sink in a loft. They opted for an off-white mosaic and black details, very trendy, the type of room that has an exclamation mark tied to it. At least, that’s how I see the word.Trendy!
My boots clink against the fine gravel of the driveway. I stop to stroke the soft nose of a pony that is in a field next to the road. Horses have the relaxing smell of forest and childhood to me. In London I would never be able to afford riding lessons, but in Sweden it’s the second-largest sport after soccer and something that has extended through to the working class.
“Thanks for coming,” the lady,Ninaaccording to my notes, says when she opens the door.
“Sure. One hundred percent customer satisfaction,” I say quoting the website Saga still hasn’t done any bloody work on.
“We seem to have a problem with one of the toilets.”
“What sort of problem would that be?” I ask.
She is silent for a moment before saying with a lowered voice, “This is slightly embarrassing. Is there a way to make the water level decrease in the toilet? It seems to reach up quite high.”
“No,” I reply. Because I don’t know. “It does not use up more water because the level is higher,” I explain, concluding that she has called me back because of electricity-cost worries.
“I’m just going to say this. God, I’m happy you’re a woman!” She looks at me as if I’m supposed to know what she means. I don’t. But I’m pleased about what she said: I was under the impression that there was sexism in the industry and that customers expected and ratherhopedfor male handymen. “When my husband sits down...on the toilet...his...well his...penisseems to touch the water.” She sayspeniswith as much fear as I would say the wordbombin an airport.
“That sounds quite uncomfortable,” I reply agreeably.
“God, I’m so happy you’re not laughing at me. I can’t tell you!” She laughs loudly.
I don’t tend to laugh at my customers, as that would be bad for business. I pull out my phone to take notes in order to reach a solution. The page says her name, address, project dates and materials ordered and used. It also states that she drinks her tea black and wears slippers inside.
“How many inches would you say it is?” I ask. A glass of sparkling water has appeared at the kitchen island next to me as if by magic. This is the type of house where everyone who sets foot inside is provided with refreshments. I take a sip and look at the lady whose face is now strangely pink.
“How many inches?” I repeat. Patience with customers is a talent of mine, crafted during my time at YourMove. People would often not understand my question and need a repeat, completely to be expected considering the number of foreign-language speakers in England.
I smile and repeat, adding for clarity, “How many inches would you say that your partner’s penis is? I know that the toilet bowl has a depth of 20.5 inches, and once I have the other numbers, I can figure out a solution.”
She touches her left earlobe where a small pearl sits. The skin has gone a deep shade of red, and I imagine the heat it must radiate. I wish she would stop twirling it. Or do the same to the other so they would be less distracting. They are very different colors now. White and red. Like the red apple against Snow White’s skin. She coughs.
“I...I wouldn’t know.”
“Would you be able to measure it tonight and send me the details? I can leave a measuring tape if you haven’t got one.”
“You would...leave your measuring tape?”
“It’s no trouble.”
I drain my water glass and move toward the sink to deposit it.
“Please leave it. Don’t worry about the glass.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not sure my partner would be too happy with any measuring. I was hoping you’d be able to simply adjust the water level.”
“Ah, good thinking, but it does not in fact adjust.” This was an example of a customer who expected us to do it all: even a small thing like measuring a body part is too much to ask.
“The only solution would be to switch the toilet for a special, taller bowl. I could have it ordered and replaced. But it would be a costly option. Think it over.”
“Thank you for trying,” she tells me in the doorway, the earlobe recovering some of its freedom finally, and the red subsiding.
“My pleasure,” I say, then turn back, wanting to put the customer at ease with a subtle joke.
“Or should I say,your pleasure.That is a considerable size.”
Nonstop Notifications are dying from laughter, and I have realized what is so funny. I should have known—preschool children laugh at toilet jokes, then follows a gap in which they are frowned upon, then once mature adult age has been reached it is once again the case that any mention of a private part is met with delight.
