I had a call today from someone unknown. It was a man, apparently looking for somebody named Heather.
Wrong number. Obviously. Not usually a big deal. In a situation like this I am normally quick and polite, informing the caller I am not who they are looking for, that they have unfortunately dialled the wrong mobile (cell) number, and that would be the end of that.
Today’s call didn’t quite go that way.
It’s always difficult taking a call when on a busy train station platform, awaiting the imminent arrival of the train; it is packed with people desperate to get to the edge of the platform first, ensuring they are one of the first to board the train and bag themselves one of the few available seats (I’ve often wondered whether people just board a train and ride it all day long, with no other purpose than to fill seats – why else are there NEVER enough seats for everyone?! Ever! Is the whole world really going to the exact same place I am?!). As today was one of my ‘fazed return’ workdays, this was the situation I found myself in.
I, too, surreptitiously elbowed my fellow commuters in the sides while I positioned myself on the platform where, I thought, the doors of the train might open once the train had stopped.
I was wedged between an (abnormally large) woman, with what can only be described as a dead cat on her head, posing as a hair do, and an extremely tall and skinny man in a suit – but don’t be fooled readers, he may have weighed no more than a Mars bar, however, he had a look in his eye that suggested sudden death for anyone foolish enough to push in front of him.
I was not that foolish.
Commuting is pretty stressful (they say, apparently, commuters collectively have the highest blood pressure of any other group of people in England…apparently. I’m not too sure who ‘they’ are, but whatever; it works for this post anyway), and you have to be on your guard most of the time.
But I digress…
So today was the usual bustle and fight, and I, standing my ground, refused to be intimidated, wedged between the two aforementioned, preparing myself to board the now visible train. However, just as it pulled in – yep, you’ve guessed it! – my mobile phone trilled it’s happy, tinny tune.
Frustrated, I delved into my bag, while keeping my eye on the train as it moved slowly into position on the platform.
I dug around the tissues (used), make-up (a must), book (of course!), purse, pens (lid-less. Damn it), perfume, loose change, the sock (?!), and other crap, until I found it, buried right down at the bottom.
I whipped it out without checking caller ID (very rare!) and answered with what can only be described as a vague but frustrated “hello?!”
Me: Erm, hello (again).
C: How are you?
M: Um, fine.
(The doors of the train are about to open, and the pushing from the mass of commuters behind me begins)
C: Good. That’s great.
M: Sorry, who did you say was calling?
C: I didn’t (cue amused chuckle. WTF?!) Its me. Don’t you recognise me voice, Heather?
M: Ahh. Sorry, you appear to have dialled the wrong number. I’m not Heather. Sorry about th-
(interrupts my explanation – the cheek!)
C: Oh! Sorry about that!
(The pushing has intensified and I am literally being swept onto the train with the rest of the commuters)
M: That’s okay. Sorry. By-
C: No, no, my fault.
(I expect him to disconnect the call now, and turn my attention to finding an available seat. My hawk eye spots one at the back of the carriage, and I begin to make my way there before it is scooped up by someone else – phone still to my ear.)
M: Err, sorry. Wrong number. I have to-
(I am now sliding myself into position onto the available seat. The train has turned silent now that everyone is settled, and I still seem to have this random caller on my phone)
C: Yes, yes, I know. I apologise for that. Maybe we could talk though?
(great. A crazy person on my phone. I am just about to disconnect the call, when he says..)
C: So tell me, what are you wearing?
M: I’m terribly sorry, (still trying to maintain the politeness, but can feel it begin to slip away) but you have the wrong number, I’ve no no intention of telling you (lower voice to ensure minimal commuters can hear) what I am wearing, and I am about to disconnect this call. Goodb-
C: Okay. I’m sorry. I was only joking. I’ll go now.
M: okay, bye
C: oh wait! One more thing…
M: (sighs) Yes?
C: what position do you liked to be f***ked in?!
I immediately hang up the phone, and spend the entire duration of my journey home with a face matching the colour of a beetroot!
Who the HELL does that?!!
I will never answer my phone without checking caller ID again. Let this be a lesson to all you non-ID-checkers out there! You never know, you could get weird-talker-sex pest-man next time!