After much reflection and whining to my boyfriend, I've decided to contact Mary, and explain that she called the wrong number. Because I'm a nice person. And because it's the right thing to do.
Honestly, I'll be calling Jim next...
Friday, 17 October 2008
Messages in the Ether
I don't like voicemail machines. I don't like leaving messages on them, and I don't like receiving messages through them either. For one you have to pay. And for another, the majority of people intersperse their recording with numerous 'ummmm's, 'errrr's, and 'soooo, anyway...'s that don't amount to the same as an actual conversation.
However the point I want to get to is that I've recently been the lucky receiver of the following rather curious and highly suspicious message:
"Hi Barbara, it's Jim 'ere. I'm just calling about the manure. It's ready for you to pick up when you're ready, I've got it 'ere, so lemme know when you're ready and I'll cost it up for ya. Gi'ss a call. Fanks."
This is enunciated, naturally, in a farmer-like twang, and I even get the impression he's chewing on a piece of straw while speaking. I've had this message at least three or four times now, and I find it rather amusing, particularly the completely oblivious nature of the caller, who clearly has no idea that he's got the wrong number. Each message is slightly more aggravated, which is understandable, given all the manure he must be piling up, if you pardon the expression.
However following this amusing succession of messages, I recently checked our home phone to find a message left by a woman whose motivation moved me a lot more than the manure-wielding man. The message was as follows:
"Mary*, it's Beatrice*. I don't know if this is welcome... but I'm calling because I think it's your birthday today. So I just wanted to say... happy birthday, and... I hope, some time in the future, maybe we can talk again. So... happy birthday."
Unlike the manure episode, this sadly spoken message, told with the quivering voice of a clearly upset woman who is seeking some sort of reconciliation, made me feel really sad, particularly because I knew the intended recipient would never receive it. As usual my brain goes into overdrive, thinking of Mary's sorrow and how Beatrice will never know she wanted to make amends, and how Mary will assume she is being shunned, when unbeknown to her the message never reached her estranged friend, or relative, or whatever. While it's not my problem I can't help but feel I'm now involved, that I am the omniscient observer of the situation, and therefore the only one who has the power to enlighten them.
I dial 1471 and get a number, hoping I can send a quick, impersonal text letting Mary know she's got the wrong number without getting too involved, but am disappointed to find it's a home number. I consider for a moment calling it, but decide it's a bit of an odd thing to do, and that it might cause her considerable embarrassment.
I know for sure when my boyfriend will say I shouldn't worry so much about it, and that I'm under no obligation to get involved, but Mary's message just rings in my ears. Her cracking voice makes me feel so sorry for her. But maybe that's stupid? For all I know she could've done a really bad thing to make her so repentive. She might've broken up a marriage, blackmailed her, caused some irrepairable rift amongst a family. Moreover, can I take responsibility for someone else's misdialing of a number, or failure to check if it still connects to the same person? Maybe it's not my business to interfere, and perhaps Mary would be angry that I'd stuck my nose in. Because that's what British people are like.
Either way, I'll never know the facts of the situation, and maybe it's best left like that. Fate has a funny way of sorting things out, and for all I know Mary's already realised her mistake and has dialed the right number.
As for Jim, he can keep his manure.
*names changed to protect callers
However the point I want to get to is that I've recently been the lucky receiver of the following rather curious and highly suspicious message:
"Hi Barbara, it's Jim 'ere. I'm just calling about the manure. It's ready for you to pick up when you're ready, I've got it 'ere, so lemme know when you're ready and I'll cost it up for ya. Gi'ss a call. Fanks."
This is enunciated, naturally, in a farmer-like twang, and I even get the impression he's chewing on a piece of straw while speaking. I've had this message at least three or four times now, and I find it rather amusing, particularly the completely oblivious nature of the caller, who clearly has no idea that he's got the wrong number. Each message is slightly more aggravated, which is understandable, given all the manure he must be piling up, if you pardon the expression.
However following this amusing succession of messages, I recently checked our home phone to find a message left by a woman whose motivation moved me a lot more than the manure-wielding man. The message was as follows:
"Mary*, it's Beatrice*. I don't know if this is welcome... but I'm calling because I think it's your birthday today. So I just wanted to say... happy birthday, and... I hope, some time in the future, maybe we can talk again. So... happy birthday."
Unlike the manure episode, this sadly spoken message, told with the quivering voice of a clearly upset woman who is seeking some sort of reconciliation, made me feel really sad, particularly because I knew the intended recipient would never receive it. As usual my brain goes into overdrive, thinking of Mary's sorrow and how Beatrice will never know she wanted to make amends, and how Mary will assume she is being shunned, when unbeknown to her the message never reached her estranged friend, or relative, or whatever. While it's not my problem I can't help but feel I'm now involved, that I am the omniscient observer of the situation, and therefore the only one who has the power to enlighten them.
I dial 1471 and get a number, hoping I can send a quick, impersonal text letting Mary know she's got the wrong number without getting too involved, but am disappointed to find it's a home number. I consider for a moment calling it, but decide it's a bit of an odd thing to do, and that it might cause her considerable embarrassment.
I know for sure when my boyfriend will say I shouldn't worry so much about it, and that I'm under no obligation to get involved, but Mary's message just rings in my ears. Her cracking voice makes me feel so sorry for her. But maybe that's stupid? For all I know she could've done a really bad thing to make her so repentive. She might've broken up a marriage, blackmailed her, caused some irrepairable rift amongst a family. Moreover, can I take responsibility for someone else's misdialing of a number, or failure to check if it still connects to the same person? Maybe it's not my business to interfere, and perhaps Mary would be angry that I'd stuck my nose in. Because that's what British people are like.
Either way, I'll never know the facts of the situation, and maybe it's best left like that. Fate has a funny way of sorting things out, and for all I know Mary's already realised her mistake and has dialed the right number.
As for Jim, he can keep his manure.
*names changed to protect callers
Sunday, 28 September 2008
How Are You?
The British are notorious for being polite and reserved. However, lately I find myself wondering if this is necessarily a good thing. The subject I wish to take issue with is that of the seemingly compulsive need to say 'how are you?' to every person one has not seen in about five minutes. Naturally this custom takes place more often that not in the workplace, where people insist on putting the question to a person they saw only the day before, and therefore couldn’t possibly have changed very much since then. If they had, the likeliness is they wouldn't have arrived for work this morning. The fact that they are clearly okay is surely obvious from one look at the person, noting no change in demeanour or appearance, no bruises or missing limbs.
I for one am getting tired of being asked the same question every morning and feeling like I have to ask it back just to be polite, when both parties know that the answer is never going to be particularly enlightening or reveal anything we didn’t already know. I’m starting to feel like I have to extend my answer further than the usual 'oh I’m fine', as more seems to be expected of me each time I am asked. Which gets difficult after a while. I don’t want to bore people with the mundane details of my journey to work any more than I want them to bore me with theirs. Maybe next time I'll spice it up a bit, throw something interesting in their like, 'I’m feeling a bit psychotic today, if I'm under-stimulated I think I might kill someone.' But that’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to say, 'I'm fine thanks, how are you?' and then the cycle is complete. Until the next morning.
So why do we feel the need to ask this question every single day, to the same people? It's become a compulsion, a meaningless habit, one that I myself am guilty of, albeit in an automatic, robotic fashion. Perhaps it is a way to fill the gap after the initial 'hello'; perhaps it is a reason to maintain eye contact for longer than a few seconds, to acknowledge presence.
Or perhaps it is something deeper than that. Our need for routine dates back to when we were running around in skimpy furs and painting on walls. Perhaps this is a modern equivalent of chanting, or dancing round the fire. Maybe this procedure of asking people how they are is an innate ritual that welds us all together as a society, that makes us feel united and strong. It may seem nothing more than an extended acknowledgement but what's to say it's any different from a hug, or a kiss? Most people wouldn't greet their boss with a big smooch on the lips, so this is the professional equivalent. I can only conclude that the reason the dreaded 'how are you' fills me with so much dejection is because it is spoken, and therefore requires more effort to maintain. However it’s phrased - what’s up?' 'how's it going?' 'what’s new?' - the sentiment is always the same; meaningless and hollow. It's also the frequency of which the question is asked that bothers me. Once in a while would probably be more bearable, but is it really necessary to ask it every 24 hours, to the same person, in the same place, knowing perfectly well that the chances of anything significant having occurred are… well, about the same chance of this person not asking how you are again the next day?
By now you’re probably starting to think what an arrogant, miserable creature I am for feeling this way, but I'm not alone. I could name at least a few people who share my revulsion towards this pointless etiquette. And to those people I propose the following: next time someone asks you how you are, respond, 'I am fine today. And I will be fine tomorrow, and the next day, and probably for the rest of my life, unless you hear otherwise... And you?'
I for one am getting tired of being asked the same question every morning and feeling like I have to ask it back just to be polite, when both parties know that the answer is never going to be particularly enlightening or reveal anything we didn’t already know. I’m starting to feel like I have to extend my answer further than the usual 'oh I’m fine', as more seems to be expected of me each time I am asked. Which gets difficult after a while. I don’t want to bore people with the mundane details of my journey to work any more than I want them to bore me with theirs. Maybe next time I'll spice it up a bit, throw something interesting in their like, 'I’m feeling a bit psychotic today, if I'm under-stimulated I think I might kill someone.' But that’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to say, 'I'm fine thanks, how are you?' and then the cycle is complete. Until the next morning.
So why do we feel the need to ask this question every single day, to the same people? It's become a compulsion, a meaningless habit, one that I myself am guilty of, albeit in an automatic, robotic fashion. Perhaps it is a way to fill the gap after the initial 'hello'; perhaps it is a reason to maintain eye contact for longer than a few seconds, to acknowledge presence.
Or perhaps it is something deeper than that. Our need for routine dates back to when we were running around in skimpy furs and painting on walls. Perhaps this is a modern equivalent of chanting, or dancing round the fire. Maybe this procedure of asking people how they are is an innate ritual that welds us all together as a society, that makes us feel united and strong. It may seem nothing more than an extended acknowledgement but what's to say it's any different from a hug, or a kiss? Most people wouldn't greet their boss with a big smooch on the lips, so this is the professional equivalent. I can only conclude that the reason the dreaded 'how are you' fills me with so much dejection is because it is spoken, and therefore requires more effort to maintain. However it’s phrased - what’s up?' 'how's it going?' 'what’s new?' - the sentiment is always the same; meaningless and hollow. It's also the frequency of which the question is asked that bothers me. Once in a while would probably be more bearable, but is it really necessary to ask it every 24 hours, to the same person, in the same place, knowing perfectly well that the chances of anything significant having occurred are… well, about the same chance of this person not asking how you are again the next day?
By now you’re probably starting to think what an arrogant, miserable creature I am for feeling this way, but I'm not alone. I could name at least a few people who share my revulsion towards this pointless etiquette. And to those people I propose the following: next time someone asks you how you are, respond, 'I am fine today. And I will be fine tomorrow, and the next day, and probably for the rest of my life, unless you hear otherwise... And you?'
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