Two friends were at a funeral last week. They knew Bella for 20 years, when the wife volunteered with Cinnamon Trust. They provide volunteers to walk and help out with pets if owners are ill or disabled. When Bella's dog died, my friend continued visiting, chatting, running the occasional errand. Bella grew up in South Africa, with servants. This instilled a sense of entitlement. Nevertheless, she was interesting, and they became very fond of her.

Before long they were shopping, driving her to appointments. She scrutinised receipts, if they had to substitute some items, she refused to pay for them. Her own family rarely visited. What shocked me was that she had not arranged any kind of thank-you for them. They did not want money, but a small memento, photo or trinket would have pleased them. Her children gave no thanks for the care given freely.

I bit my tongue often, hearing them laugh about her imperious manner. I needed reminding of the times I had been suckered.

I got to know a sweet man from walking our dogs. When he died their neighbour asked me to walk his dog each morning, she would cover evenings. I assumed his widow was an invalid or disabled. She was actually perfectly healthy, only 60 or so. From childhood, doting parents allowed her to stay home if she did not fancy school, wrapped her in cotton wool. They picked her husband for his caring (doormat?) personality. She only went out alone to visit the hairdresser or doctors. She told me her husband would have loved children, but she could not risk him loving them more than her.

I walked the dog every day, and sure enough she soon started requesting favours, bits of shopping. I put my foot down eventually but walked the dog until he died. It was not his fault!

A neighbour bemoaned the weight of carrying shopping back from town, despite having a bus pass, bus stop outside. For two years I added her items to my weekly shop, some were delivered but others I had to fetch myself. I don't drive, and more than once I was carrying her stuff home, only for her to trot past me, complete with shopping trolley.

It set my teeth on edge when she opened the envelope with receipts and change. Each coin was counted; heaven forbid I should diddle her out of a penny. She knew we were vegetarians but would add cooked meats and fish to her list. Hints that it made me feel bad buying them were ignored or found funny.

The last straw was when she phoned at 6am one Saturday, saying she had forgotten something on her list. I don't know about you, but a startling call like that has my nervous system on red alert for the rest of the day. To cap it all, the item was something particularly visceral only available at the butchers. I made excuses, and eventually she got the message. Before long she  found another servant.

My maternal grandmother was in service. Maybe it's genetic but I feel most uncomfortable issuing orders. I hate people who are curt with waiting staff, and if I had a cleaner, I would be up at dawn getting the grottier jobs done. If anyone does me a favour, I thank them, maybe buy flowers.

Have you found yourself being used as a servant? 

Val

A Moodscope member