Thursday, May 20, 2010

Massively Unproductive Telephone Conversations.

Me: Hello. Could I speak to Caroline please?

Oh I’m sorry she’s off until tomorrow. Who’s calling?

Me: It’s Tired at the Department.

Receptionist: Oh right, well Rachel will be able to help you. I’ll but you through? [You’re not Australian, I think. Don’t make a statement sound like a question]

Beep. Beep.

Rachel: Hello, Rachel speaking.

Me: Hello, this is Tired at the Department.

Rachel: Oh Hi. Erm. Oh. Right. It’s Caroline you really need to speak to…

Me: Is it.

Rachel: Yeah… um. She’s in tomorrow? [Christ, you as well]

Me: Is she.

Rachel: Yeeaah.

Me: Tomorrow it is.

I know I should appreciate the willingness to help, and welcome the delight of speaking to new people I would never normally encounter but really. Fuck. Off.

Two hours later.

Me: …and do you know why, ‘cos I’ll tell you. I have no interest in becoming one of those witless wonders who gaze into the neon oblong glare of their unbearable twat-machines, surrounded by friends in their favourite bar while someone normal like me sits thinking ‘Christ this is excellent, I’m so glad I came out to watch these fucknuts play Texas Hold ‘Em with a twelve-year old transvestite in Wisconsin’ and no, actually no I very much doubt that it ‘impresses the chicks’ as you suggest – I know you’re being ‘ironic’ but even so –

Female Client: You think smoking ‘impresses the chicks’.

Me: It does. It makes you look ‘cool’, ‘hard’ and ‘grown-up’. All fiddling with a fucking iPhone gets you is the utter contempt of anyone who sees you sitting on the tube swirling your fingers over the fucking thing like it was your girlfiend’s vagina which, incidently, if you gave the proper attention to you would find the desire for a smart-fucking-phone would never of crossed your mind in the first place-

FC: Tired? What did you call for?

Me: I honestly can’t remember now. You’ve made me all cross and I’ve lost my train of thought.

FC: We really should meet for a drink sometime.

Me: Sure.

Unproductive on a business front, but also an opportunity to have an ill-advised affair with a married client. So. Unproductive then.

Four hours later.

I’ve missed my normal bus home due to lengthy unproductive telephone calls, and retire to a bar across the street from the bus ‘rank’ or whatever you call them.

It’s an alright place. It’s not part of a chain, has the impression of being a bit of a labour of love and is filled with ageing indie-kids, various other ‘alternative’ types, people who refer to themselves as ‘creatives’ who are actually ‘Mac operators’ and men in suits who like to pretend they are still ‘with it’ and that the Chartered Accountancy thing is just a day job.

I sit with my drink. A song by a band I quite like comes over the speakers from what I am sure is a 'mix-tape' or whatever the current equivalent is that has been put together by a member of the bar staff. An ageing indie-kid takes the stool next to me and starts fiddling with his mobile phone. I instantly dislike him but can’t really justify it as I’m one of the suit-guys who are kidding themselves, and in my time off I’m also an ageing indie-kid. Dreadful. I need a proper reason to hate him that doesn’t reflect on myself.

He phones someone.

Ageing Indie-Kid: Steve? Steve-O! It’s Nathan! How you doin’ fella? Long time no speak, thought I’d catch up with the Stevester! Fella, you sound out of breath, you ok? Oh right. In bed? Christ. Didn’t wake you did I? No? Sweet. So listen, thing is I need somewhere to crash and…. Yeah? Really? Jesus. So how’d that work? You just say to him I need to know where this is going, will you move in with me? Oh you did? Wow. Anyway, just for a few days and……right. Yeah. Sure. Understood. I’ll let you get back to sleep.

It’s five-thirty in the afternoon. I imagine Stephen – who surely does not relish being referred to as ‘Steve-O’ or ‘the Stevester’ throwing his phone across the room and getting back to the slightly more pressing business of enthusiastically fucking his new live-in boyfriend.

Nathan: Toby? Nathan! How you doin’ fella? Yeah? Sweet. Listen. There’s this thing, and I need somewhere to crash – you know, just for a couple of days and…… Really? Christ. That was quick. Where to? Hello? No you went a bit quiet. Where to fella? Plymouth? Wow, that literally couldn’t be further away. Jesus, what a job eh? Anyway. Much love yeah?

I go from briefly despising him to noticing the array of bags around his feet and wondering where he’ll sleep that night. And then deciding that he should have got a proper job as opposed to being the musician/writer/artist/whatever he has obviously decided upon and stop being a dreadful burden to everyone he encounters and let them get on with some sex and not having to make up stories about moving to Cornwall.

My bus is due. I finish my drink and leave.


Blogger Ellie said...

What did you get to drink?

10:31 pm  
Blogger Tracy Lynn said...

Smoking totally makes you cool. True fact.

10:43 pm  
Anonymous Dave said...

I am Gay!

10:56 pm  
Blogger Mr Farty said...

Dave's moved in with Steve-O.

11:06 pm  
Anonymous Em said...

If this had a happy ending you would, of course, invite Nathan, his mobile and his baggage home to stay. And give up smoking. And not contemplate for one minute having affair with married client.

But then Nathan would use your egg spoon and you would have to move to Cornwall and it would all go to hell. Just a thought.

1:51 am  
Anonymous Gibbon said...

Plymouth is not in 'Cornwell', you bastard

12:46 pm  
Blogger Pueblo girl said...

So many ways to communicate, so few communication skills (not you).

2:34 pm  
Blogger Moo said...

Thank you Gibbon, not the bastard bit though.

Plymouth is not in Cornwall!

7:52 pm  
Blogger Johnners said...

Smoking totally makes you feel cool, and if they ever come up with ones that don't kill you then I will be back on them like a shot. A SHOT.

Felt a bit sorry for Nathan, but only a bit. Dreadful house-guest, I reckon.

9:43 pm  
Anonymous Em said...

I eat pussy really! i prefer it when they are hairy :-)

10:17 pm  
Anonymous Em said...

Sigh. No i don't and i'm really, really hoping you can tell the difference between me and Dave/Em...

11:18 pm  
Anonymous janeway said...

Navigating your comments section is an adventure. Is it a full moon in your part of the world? Or are you simply fatally attractive to nutters?

2:04 am  
Blogger punxxi said...

Tired is a nutter magnet. Smoking is not too healthy for you.
I used to smoke more than anyone I knew and I was a Respiratory Care Practitioner. Like all hospital workers I am a nutter.

5:31 am  
Blogger punxxi said...

Dave you are not gay, you are only marginally happy.

5:34 am  
Anonymous Em said...

Ok i'll admit it since dave is brave enough to admit it. i officially come out! i munch pussy! gay and proud!

7:34 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Ellie: A pint of fucking Red Stripe in an attempt to be 'down' with 'do yute' despite it not being fashionable since 1993.

TL: Agreed.

Farty: That would be too much of a coincidence. Besides. 'Dave' lives in New Zealand.

Em: That is the worst happy ending ever. And no, I'm not contemplating it at all.

Gibbon: Hello and welcome.

PG: Surely constantly referring to someone as 'fella' is the way ahead? No? No.

Moo: Hello. Half of it is?

Johnners: Hello. It's my understanding that you die in the end whatever happens. And he'd be the worst 'guest' in that HE'D NEVER LEAVE. "What do you call a musician without a girlfriend?" Answer - "Homeless".

Em: Astounding news.

Em: Oh. I really don't know what to believe now. Not really.

janeway: It doesn't really have to be a full moon. This silly blog used to attract quite a lot of mentals so it's quite nice to have one back.

Although it is sadly detracting from the whole Plymouth/Cornwall/Devon controversy that I was rather hoping was going to take off in an irrational manner.


Punx: Hi. What is a 'Respiratory Care Practitioner'? My son has asthma.

Em: I'm not sure I even know who you are anymore.

8:26 pm  
Blogger punxxi said...

RCPs are the people that take care of people with breathing problems such as asthma,bronchitis and emphysema. We also work on all the "code blues" draw blood from arteries( as opposed to veins) put breathing tubes in, attach people to ventilators and conversly remove tubes and machines. Also worked in surgery, EKG's, emergancy room and nursery/labor and delivery. Just the usual stuff.
Hate to tell this to a child, but chocolate can trigger an asthma attack.

2:52 am  
Anonymous janeway said...

Um..."one" ?

6:30 pm  
Anonymous dave said...

I am gay!

6:35 pm  
Anonymous janeway said...

ohhhh. that one.

8:12 pm  
Blogger punxxi said...

Then you won't mind if we "intubate" you, will you Dave?

3:10 am  
Blogger Moo said...

Plymouth is definitely in Devon, I live here! Once you cross the Tamar Bridge you are no longer in Plymouth (Devon) but in Saltash which is in Cornwall ;-)

8:43 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

punx: Really? About the chocolate thing?

J: Yeah.

punx: I doubt he'd be that bothered.

Moo: Right then.

10:05 pm  
Blogger punxxi said...

yeah, it's true about the chocolate thing, it really can be a trigger.

2:56 am  
Blogger punxxi said...

This comment has been removed by the author.

2:56 am  

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