My ears are rusty. I sometimes resort to holding an imaginary ear horn, which is not the coolest thing a young lady can do. I say this to excuse myself, in part, for having such a hard time understanding South Indians on the phone. Face to face, I'm usually ok; but put someone on the phone with me, even if they have impeccable English, and it's a disaster.
Last night, I got a call from the night guard at the Consulate. He told me that a gentleman named Lawrence was there to see me. Aha! I was expecting a Lawrence, but at my house, not at work. It was 8 pm and he was meant to be measuring my beloved, ratty, good-boned couch for reupholstery.
"Oh no!," I said to the guard on the phone. "Do not let him in!" I had visions of causing a security breach and then so-long diplomacy career. I remember being very clear that he should not be let inside. I called Lawrence to tell him to come to my house. I had sent him gigantic SMS the day before to explain the address - more on addresses in Chennai another time - so I was pretty peeved that he had gone to the Consulate.
"Mr. Lawrence," I said, "Why haven't you come to my house?"
"Madam, I am downstairs only."
"Yes, downstairs at the Consulate. The guard told me. Please come to my house."
"Madam, I am downstairs only. I can't come."
"Ok. Whatever. Just come tomorrow."
At this point, I opened my door to find Lawrence and the security guard standing on the landing outside. Seriously, am I so bad at understanding?
This kind of thing happens all the time. Earlier in the evening, someone (who I think said they were) from the Consulate buzzed my house to try to return my cigarettes. A confusing few minutes followed, until I suggested that he try ringing my upstairs neighbor, who smokes.
Anywhoo, the couch is measured, the cigarettes are (presumably) returned to their rightful owner, and all is well in the world.
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