I was already in a bad mood when the phone rang. I’d just received my third car insurance renewal notice, which had been paid a couple of weeks ago, but the stupid computer system at the insurance company didn’t seem to realise this.
“Hi, I’m Mary from the XYZ mortgage company. Can you spare thirty seconds to answer a survey?”
Well that one was easy. Normally when I receive a phone call from a telemarketing company, and that was clearly what this was, I usually just answer that sorry, I’m not interested.
“Sure!”
I then proceeded to answer her questions. I may not have been as cooperative as I could’ve been, but I stayed polite. After all, it was her time that was being wasted. I was just filling in time before dinner.
It turned out to be a very therapeutic phone call. Most questions I could I answer easily and without a qualm. The way she responded with “Excellent!” no matter what I said was amusing. Others questions I had fun with.
“Now, how much is your place worth?” she asked, obviously so she could look at whether I’d be a good risk if they convinced me to switch my mortgage to them.
“No idea,” I replied happily.
“Well, what about similar properties in your area? How much at they selling for?”
“There are no similar properties in my area.”
“You have a unique place?” she asked, starting to sound confused.
“Yep!” I said cheerfully. “We have a rural property with a house that dates back to the 1800’s. There are no other properties like ours around here.”
“What would you think you could get if you sold it?” she asked, definitely sounding frazzled.
“No idea. I’m not a real-estate agent or a bank valuer,” I told her. “Anyway, it’s academic. We don’t intend to sell, so finding out how much our place is worth is a waste of time.”
“Oh.”
It amazes me what some people think others should know. I have a friend who once lost a number of documents in a fire. When he went to an accountant to get some things organised, he was asked for his Australian Tax File Number.
“Er… I lost all my documentation in a fire, remember.”
“But surely you have your tax file number memorised?” the accountant asked in disbelief.
“Who memorises their tax file number?” my friend countered.
“Everyone should! I know mine,” the accountant responded.
Now, I use my tax file number once a year, when I fill in my tax return. Apart from looking it up once when I start a new job, take out health insurance, or start a new superannuation scheme, I never use it. I’m firmly on my friend’s side on this one. No one in their right mind would have their number memorised.
Now, I could’ve been more helpful and come up with a figure for what our property is worth, but I really couldn’t be sure it would be accurate. Was it better to not give Mary a figure, or to give her one that might be wildly wrong? Regardless, it was more fun to not give her one.
The phone call finished up soon afterwards when I told her I wasn’t interested in moving my mortgage. She’d taken up more than the originally estimated thirty seconds, but she cheered me up after my phone call with the insurance company, so I didn’t begrudge her the time.
“You had fun, didn’t you,” Janine accused me.
“Yep!” I smiled back at her. “She rang me, not the other way around. And, I was polite. Yeah, I could’ve given her some hint on our property value, but I honestly don’t know what it is. Even the bank won’t tell us what they valued it at when we asked them,” I pointed out.
“Hmph” was all she replied.
Dinner went smoothly, or at least as smoothly as it ever does when you have a six-year-old who wants to try chopsticks. He managed to eat a reasonable amount (fingers are useful implements for eating with) and even had some small success picking up noodles with those two pieces of wood we’d given him. We kept suggesting he use the fork, but he wanted to eat like his mum and dad.
It was after dinner that I got inundated with more phone calls.
Janine had been shopping with Andrew. She told me afterwards that Andrew had seen them last time they’d gone, and this time she weakened and bought them for him:
Chocolate mobile phone biscuits.
Correction: “Mobile Fone” biscuits. That’s what was on the packaging at least. I suspected that Colin had something to do with it, because I’d been told about the argument from earlier in the week.
“Mummy, can you please help me write out the words ’Phone Number’” he had asked Janine.
“Why?” she queried as she came over to help him.
“I want to give out our phone number to Glenda so she can call me to say when she can come over to play,” he replied.
Things didn’t go as smoothly as that. Janine wrote down “Phone Number” on a piece of paper so Colin could copy it — his normal approach.
“That’s wrong!” he told her in no uncertain terms.
“What do you mean?”
“Phone starts with a ’f’ sound, and you’ve got it starting with a ’p’. You’ve got it wrong, Mummy!”
Janine told me he’d been most indignant. He got even more upset when she wouldn’t change it, insisting that that was the correct way to spell the word. In the end, she won.
Now, however, all our efforts to help our boys spell correctly were being sabotaged by this packet of biscuits. I quickly ripped off the wrapping before Colin could see that he wasn’t the only one that thought “Phone” should be spelt “Fone”.
While the boys grabbed their chocolate phone biscuits, I examined the wrapping. I was horrified to find even more examples of misspellings on this commercial offering: “u 2 will luv the gr8 taste”
I shuddered at what must be in the biscuits if that was the level of education of the people who did the wrapping.
“Daddy, I’m calling you!”
I looked around to see Andrew grinning at me, repeating “Ring, ring,” endlessly.
I lifted up my left hand, stuck out my thumb and little finger, and pretended it was a phone.
“Hello. Daddy speaking,” I told my hand.
“Hello, Daddy. It’s Andrew. I’m calling you on my new phone!”
“Hello, Andrew,” I said. “Do you like your new phone?”
There was no answer.
“Hello?” I repeated.
“He’s not answering, Daddy,” Colin told me.
I looked over at where Andrew was standing. He’d eaten one end off his mobile phone. I shrugged. Well that’s one way to end a phone conversation.
Now, Colin was holding his biscuit up to his ear and was making ringing noises.
“Mummy, it’s for you,” he interjected between rings.
“Mummy’s phone is switched off,” Janine announced sagely. “She forgot to recharge the batteries again.”
“Oh, okay,” Colin said. “Daddy, I’m calling you!”
I glared at Janine while I proceeded to take a progression of phone calls from the two boys. She was getting out of this too lightly.
“I love you, too,” I told her.
She just smiled back sweetly.