Men And Tradesmen

I like to think of myself as a modern man.  I can change a nappy, I do my share of the cooking and cleaning at home, and I don’t know one end of a spanner from another.  But this latter aspect of my metrosexuality, previously a source of some pride, has more recently caused me embarrassment.

Our recent move to a rain-scoured island has already given Mrs Lobster and me a string of memories to cherish – from the weirdly atmospheric drizzle on the investiture day of the Island’s parliament, to the spectacularly musclebound prize bulls lumbering meatily round the ring at the agricultural show.  And most memorable of all so far has been our move the other day into what has turned out to be the Island’s Dampest House, with a hole in the roof, water in the walls and mould in the cupboards.  Of course, we didn’t know about these added features prior to moving in, and have been camping out in the living room while a couple of builders have been called in to patch things up.  And while talking to these chaps when I’ve been around, I’ve noticed something odd and very disconcerting.  Despite the facts that Mrs Lobster is an architect, and that I know nothing about building beyond roughly the right number of walls a house should have to keep the roof up (four), the tradesmen we’ve had round have all addressed their comments and even conversation directly to me.  Even when Mrs L has made a point that clearly shows her knowledge of building construction, the lads always reply looking at me, not her.

And it’s not the first time this has happened.  Before we moved to our mist-bound location, Mrs Lobster and I had some work done on our urban hideaway so that we could rent it out while we were away.  I looked in local directories for an electrician and, not knowing one from another, decided to go for the only woman in the list, thinking that, in such a male-dominated area, she would, according to the adage, have to be twice as good as a man to succeed – possibly sexist of me in itself, but never mind.  Anyway, the electrician showed up, along with her mate (a man) who would do the ‘making good’ of the plasterwork around any switches, lights etc she would install.  Again, in spite of my manifestly inferior knowledge of all things construction, he – the colleague of a female tradesman, or indeed tradesperson – would speak straight to me about the work they were doing.  Even when Mrs Lobster made a point about techniques, or asked about components, he would address his reply to me.

As you can imagine, all this has been a bit embarrassing.  Mrs L has shrugged it off, saying she’s used to it in her job, but I feel quite awkward – and not just because I don’t have a clue what these building sorts are talking about.  But I’ve decided on a technique to address the situation in a non-confrontational way, one that won’t involve taking these blokes to task on their behaviour – at least not while they’re in charge of making the roof on our house watertight.  I’m going to address all my conversation with them to a sock puppet on my hand.  That way, I may end up looking a bit leaky under the gutters myself, but they’ll have to address Mrs Lobster properly, to avoid looking as if they’d prefer to talk to a man talking to a sock puppet than to a woman.  Of course, it may backfire and end up looking like a student theatre production at the Edinburgh Fringe, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take to strike a blow for equality.  Now, I need to find a needle and thread – I’ll have to sew some button-eyes on this sock if I’m going to carry it all off with any conviction.

Contact the author here: thewhy@morningquickie.com