In real life, she was about my age, with smooth, unlined skin and a slash of red lipstick.
“You don’t look like a social worker,” I said. She stared at me but said nothing.
Not again! In every walk of life, I encounter people with underdeveloped social skills with alarming frequency.
Why is it that client-facing jobs hold such allure for misanthropes? It’s a conundrum.
I made a mental note to return to the topic later, unhooked the chain and invited her in.
I showed her into the lounge, listening to her high heels clicking across the floor.
She asked if she could have a quick tour; I’d been expecting that, of course.
Heather used to do that too; I assume that it’s part of the job, checking to make sure that I’m not storing my own urine in demijohns
or kidnapping magpies and sewing them into pillowcases.
She complimented me unenthusiastically on the interiors as we went into the kitchen.
I tried to see my home through the eyes of a visitor. I’m aware that I am very fortunate to live here,
social housing in this area being virtually nonexistent these days.
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