When we moved from St Heliers to our miniscule bijou
residence on the city fringe, nearly three years ago, we had an in depth
discussion regarding the landline; to be
more precise, the necessity of it. I pointed
out that anyone who wanted to contact me now did so via email or text or, on
the very odd occasion, by a mobile call.
I could not remember the last time someone rang me on the landline, I
lied. I could of course remember but
those that still did were either cold callers offering insurance and heat pumps
or acquaintances who laboured under the misapprehension that they were friends.
The husband fiercely disagreed and said that as he did not
own a cell phone and had yet to learn how to send emails on the Tablet I had
given him two birthdays ago, the landline was for him an absolute
necessity. It was duly installed of
course because on matters like this he usually gets his way.
As I predicted, however, it rarely singles me out for attention but
two or three times weekly those organizing games of golf or beery assignations
to discuss the state of the nation’s finances ring for him. This is all very well of course but
irritatingly he does rather expect me to attend to these calls, sift through
them and alert him as to who exactly is calling before he deigns to take the
receiver in hand. In other words I have
of late become a kind of secretary or PA.
So a week or two ago I rebelled and told him I was no longer
prepared to continue in this role. He was offended, as is his wont but the odd
thing is that he has now become very choosy as to whether or not he actually answers
the insistent call of the landline that he needed so very much. When I queried why he said, `Uh…it might not
actually be for me you know!’
He is not as yet though, prepared to abandoned the landline altogether.
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