Path across The Common. Paths reaching the brow of a hill have a charm and promise all of their own.Monday mornings, when you have the choice, is the wrong time to visit the bank. Entrepreneurs, are paying in their takings after the weekend. As I wait in the queue I watch tellers counting thousands of pounds (it seems). As they put the bundles away each clasped by an elastic band, I can hear the money shuffling into the vaults, whispering to itself, snuggling down, keeping warm in the economy.
The telephone rings. Somebody says my name with confidence and not without familiarity. Then, "It's Diane. Diane Rhodes!" I suppose I am not alone in forgetting the names of acquaintances. So I hesitate, but have to admit that I don't know her. Part of me expects a prompt, something like, "you know, we met on the stair case in Grand Central Station you caught me when I fell over my suitcase." Or, "it was on Bondai Beach. The shark swallowed your surfboard..." No such luck. A miserable anticlimax. I must have the wrong number". Still it is better than someone from a call-centre selling double-glazing.
3 comments:
Wrong number drama elicited a laugh.
Significant that I get Joe Bloggs whereas you get someone with Mediterranean and mythical associations. Perhaps for your birthday, instead of the normal Gorillagram, I could arrange for Clytemnestra to call. Or Zeus Dry Cleaning.
I have always had a week spot for Persephone. Suitably mispronounced she also seems vaguely appropriate for a wrong number.
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