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
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