Thursday, April 28, 2011

Mumbles the Maid

Fingers crossed, I have always been fortunate in my choice of maids.

Horror stories abound in the mainstream media about maids who range from the drunk to the disorderly, from the delinquent to the downright deranged. Compared to that nightmarish lot, my maids have been relatively benign. Despite my unfortunate tendency to order them about imperiously ( armed with a trusty silver bell ), I don't think my maids have made any complaints. Obviously there are far worse slavedrivers around who offer their own inhumane version of turkish treatment.

Even my egalitarian boyfriend - perpetually appalled over my haughty manner - would admit that I have never ill-treated my maids. Not even a raised voice.

Which is why they adore me. Or secretly plot in the fields of Netherfield to ignite a fiery revolution and have my noble head guillotined.

Fortunately my newest maid would rally the crowd alone since there is no one else under my regular employ. And few would even understand her seditious suggestions, if she had any, since she mumbles.

Paul : Surely you understood what she meant?
Kat : I honestly didn't have the slightest idea.
Paul : I was depending on you to to decipher her cryptic dialect. Not even her name then?
Kat : I'm afraid she lost me at hello.

Yes. My maid mumbles.

Very first time we called to hire her, we could barely make out her garbled name which is why we immediately assigned a new nickname for her. Maid Mumbles. Rather than speak in one of the beautifully melodious local dialects here, Mumbles chooses to maul the English language instead - armed with a dozen mutilating marbles in her mouth.

Or a precious gold nugget. I haven't quite decided which.

Paul : Lovely work, my dear. I think you deserve a bonus this month.
Mumbles : Gobbledygook.
Paul : Umm, you're welcome?
Mumbles : Tarabarshchina.
Paul : I'm sorry, was that a thank you?
Felix : We should run. That could be a threat.

Wonderful worker. Efficient, eager and enthusiastic. Seriously frustrated that I can't understand her better. Initially wondered whether I had developed a listening disorder ( or an early stroke ) when I found that I couldn't comprehend her garbled speech! Only when the other tenants in the household agreed wholeheartedly that they found her a puzzling enigma did I realize that the fault didn't lie with me.

Maybe as a legacy of the Brooke dynasty, she speaks with a Dartmoor accent?

1 comment:

john chen said...

i hired a 'freelancer' once - as most 'men-about-town' are wont to do - and she turned out to be a real gem, that is until she started dominating my life. she wanted me to buy specific detergent, eat certain foods, stop seeing certain types of guys, etc. my famous last words to her were: "i need someone to help me, not mother me...." ach! the horrors!