Forwards and occasionally sidewards – everyday musings of life

I noticed the kitchen clock click over to 9:00 AM exactly at the same moment the doorbell rang. “That’ll be the blind man then,” I announced to Karen as the dogs immediately kicked off and general mayhem ensued. I should probably clarify that Giles, the ‘blind man’, isn’t partially sighted—he works for Hillarys, and doesn’t even wear glasses.

British Rail could learn a staggering amount from this man. He was bang on time, his customer service was second to none, and he paid obsessive attention to the minutest detail. He is a master craftsman of his chosen trade: curtains and blinds.

The dogs eventually quietened down for their usual bribe of tasty treats—with the sole exception of Pikachu. I’m convinced she has calculated that an escalation in barking directly correlates to an increase in high-value rewards. The Border Collies, being far too clever, already have us fully trained: “You want us to stop barking? Then feed us, human.” Once the treats are secured, their work is done; for a Collie, food isn’t the primary goal—completing the task and folding the sheep into the pen is. They’ve mathematically proven that swift silence maximises treat frequency.

Pikachu, on the other hand, escalated the volume and pitch of her bark—a sound known to set off car alarms and interfere with local Wi-Fi—as the prospect of secondary treats faded. Finding zero solidarity from the Collies, she ultimately surrendered, and normality returned.

“No tea or coffee for me, thank you,” Giles replied cheerfully to my offer as he wrestled another massive cardboard box into the hallway. Perhaps British Rail wouldn’t suit him as an alternative career after all; he’s far too efficient.

“See you later, enjoy the show!” Karen was heading into London with her sister and sister-in-law to see Paddington—the stage show, that is, not the station. Intrigued, I noticed they were catching the train from Andover rather than our local Pewsey stop. I couldn’t help but wonder if they had read my recent blog posts and made a tactical decision to avoid Paddington Station altogether, fearing the Bear might be running 20 minutes late and offering compensation forms.

With the first set of curtains up, Giles moved into the second room. I poked my head through the door and was greeted by a setup more akin to a NASA satellite tracking station than a domestic window fitting. A cross-hair laser level cast precision green grids across the walls, flanked by micro-adjusters, digital measurers, and a array of specialised apparatus. It rendered my puny tool belt, battered tape measure, and plastic spirit level thoroughly pathetic by comparison.

Precisely as the 12:00 PM news broadcast began, Giles announced he had finished. Running strictly to schedule, no late-running penalties applied here. I was now required to undergo formal operational training in the care and maintenance of his masterpieces.

It is no longer a simple matter of pulling a cord or drawing a drape. Oh no—these highly tuned, precision light-deflectors must be maintained with specialised silicone lubrication, pleated to mathematical perfection, and drawn with delicate symmetry. Giles went to extraordinary lengths to explain the finest operational details.

I should have known better than to prepare the vacuum cleaner for another post-workman outing. Giles had left every single room cleaner and tidier than he found it, effectively ticking a job off my own list before I’d even started. He arrived on time, executed the work with military accuracy, cleaned up his own mess, and left behind a flawless result.

It’s official: Giles wouldn’t last five minutes on the British railway network.