Wrong Number?
Some crossed wires.
We were just finishing breakfast when the phone rang. “I'll get it, I’m expecting a call!”, and I rushed to pick up the phone. It was still resting on the docking station, after charging overnight. Yes, we are oldfashioned, still using a landline phone.
“Is that the Posh Poodle Parlour? I want to bring my dog for a trim tomorrow. Can you fit him in?” “I’m sorry”, I replied, “but this is a private home not a pooch beauty salon. This is …”, and I gave her my number. An angry elderly lady’s voice snapped, “But that’s the number I used. You must be the dog parlour, I’ve been bringing Henry to you for years! You are too dumb to understand! Where is your boss?” Not wanting to be equally rude back, I didn’t hang up. The lady was agitated and might have a stroke any minute. I took a deep breath, “I’m afraid I can’t help you. You seem to have muddled up the numbers, which is easily done without glasses.” “I don’t wear glasses”, she shot back. Tempted to suggest that she gets her eyes tested, I bit back my sharp retort. “I can only repeat that this is a private house, not a bow-wow beauty service. Goodbye!”
I got on with my household chores, singing parts of a childhood song: “How much is that doggie in the window, the one with the waggly tail? ... I don’t want a bunny or kitty, I don’t want a parrot that talks, I don’t want a bowl of little fishies, You can’t take a goldfish for walks (woof!woof!).”
Maybe I should diversify, open a pet parlour and get rich? It’s pet mania in the UK at the moment and Austria (viz Michael Darmanin recently). More than three million British households have bought furry friends during the pandemic. And more than half of these new pet-owners are under 34, already spending a fortune on canine facials, blow-dries and even outfits. Is this the future?
As I took my mid-morning mug of coffee and digestive biscuit out onto the terrace, the phone rang. Luckily it wasn’t the dog lady again. “Hello, Madam, good morning”, said a polite Indian voice, “I’m calling you from Microsoft in Bangalore.” We suffer dozens of calls like that every month on our landline. Sophisticated cold-callers now have European numbers display on the phone, so you fall into the trap. Feeling cheeky, I switched to my best Indian accent, learnt from Delhi friends in London and on extensive trips to India. I asked, “What’s the weather like in Karnataka? Has the monsoon hit already?” Surprised, the callcentre girl began to reply, “The monsoon is so late, it is sooo hot ...”, and the line went dead. I hoped she didn’t get into trouble with those supervisors who monitor all calls. To pay for their studies, many students in that high-tech metropolis work at callcentres all through the Indian night in order to reach us in Europe during the day. Modern slavery.
Lunchtime, when the answerphone takes all the calls through to the end of our midday siesta, is blissfully quiet. A few callers do get cross and don’t leave a message, while others are a bit slow and are recorded, “Oh damn, they’ve got that stupid thing on again. I refuse to speak to a machine!”
The day drew to a close. It was tea-time. As the kettle boiled, the phone rang. Phone number concealed, but the voice was familiar. “I’m coming with Henry tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. and you will trim him. I was so shocked this morning by a rude person who pretended that the parlour doesn’t exist but I know better.”