Already a subscriber? Log in
From Jessica Gorst-Williams
Q. I very much enjoy my job as financial products consumer champion on a national newspaper. However, friends (whom I have not seen for a while), strangers and acquaintances of acquaintances often ring up late at night on weekends and launch straight into the first episode of what will clearly be long-running soap operas about financial malpractices of which they are the victims. They sometimes talk for 20 minutes without even asking how my cat is, let alone for some family news. All of these people expect me to be fascinated by their circumstances and take umbrage when I give them short shrift. This kind of thing is to be expected at parties, and you can move on. The phone, though, when you are preoccupied, is more of an ambush. How can I explain that, though I am happy to help, I do not often feel like doing so after hours?
A. Of course you don’t. You must be shattered. You singlehandedly help thousands of people each year and recover about £1 million per annum for readers of your Jessica Investigates column in the Telegraph. You deserve full recognition in the next honours list. Deal with this problem by interrupting such callers to say that your telephone is about to run out of battery so they must be quick. Then cut them off. When ‘caller display’ shows they are ringing straight back, click them on to an answering service which announces, ‘Jessica will deal with your problems between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. Monday to Friday. Please call back then.’
From Bruce Buck
Q. Through no fault of my own, I have found myself in the enviable position of being chairman of Chelsea Football Club. As you might expect, a number of politicians, rock stars, titans of business and other assorted hangers-on have become my new-found best friends. They all think I can get them free tickets, but I cannot. In order not to disappoint, I acquire the tickets, pay for them myself and then give them away to court favour with these galacticos. With Christmas around the corner and everyone wanting tickets to the Liverpool match in January, the financial burden on me is getting to be too much. I am star-struck and want to maintain these new ‘friendships’. I need advice as to what I can do to stop the give-away of tickets.
A. Being star-struck afflicts many mortals who find themselves in a position such as yours, and as you may secretly hanker to be blinded by flash photography as you alight at a designer-clad gathering of your new closest friends, the investment that you are making is surely a sound one. Considering that you are chairman of the Royal Borough’s football club, the answer is to proffer these covetable match tickets upon receipt of a generous donation to the Chelsea Pensioners Appeal, which you will thereafter be able to present amid much fanfare to the controller of the Royal Hospital.
From Liza Campbell
Q. As a divorcee I have alternate holidays with my children. I usually start panicking in early September about the Christmases when I am without them. I find it hard to be the sad guest in friends’ homes, and being around other people’s children only exacerbates the pining I have for my own. I know it’s only one day, but without a plan I dread it. Any suggestions?
A. The most exciting batches of people at parties are often those to be found smoking in the street. Why not make a feature of your pariah status and promote the same principle for Christmas planning? Arrange a Salon des Refusés Christmas in your own home peopled exclusively by similar divorcees and singletons and other assorted saddoes. A friend who does this says the party is by far the best she attends all year.
From Edward Fox
Q. I belong to what is known in the tabloid press as a ‘theatrical dynasty’, although visually my family puts one more in mind of a herd of buffalo. At this time of year when the family is together we are often required to pose for group photographs. Traditionally I have always held centre stage. Recently, however, the lesser, younger creatures have begun to jostle me out of position. How can I discreetly use an iron elbow in a velvet sleeve to re-establish my position as chief bullock?
A. Stand next to the photographer while the others assemble themselves. When the photographer urges you to join the line-up, act daft and do nothing. The frustrated family will then be forced to indicate by gesture what you have apparently failed to hear and will be forced to group themselves appropriately with a gap at centre stage for you to fill.
From Julian Barrow
Q. As an artist I am often annoyed when, at one of my private views, someone comes up to me almost in tears saying that the painting she particularly wanted to buy has already got a red dot on it and that was the one painting she really wanted. Although such people are trying to flatter one they clearly have no desire whatsoever to buy a painting. How can I stamp out this time- wasting practice?
A. Why not tease these people by saying, ‘You’re in luck. In this gallery we do things differently. The exhibition starts with a red spot on every picture and we take them off as they sell.’ Pause while they squirm and say they will have to ask their husbands, then add, ‘Oh no. I tell a lie. I’m muddling this gallery up with my New York gallery. You’re right — it has been sold.’
Also in Society
Also by Mary Killen
Latest
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in