The main news of the day is that Dave’s back. He has photos to show us, but he says we won’t see them all – just one for every comment that we left while he was away, I expect.
I’ve spent some of the day making phone calls. I don’t like making phone calls very much. When I was a little girl, I once curiously picked up the phone – in those days, telephones were always in the hallway. No one had one in the living room and certainly not in the bedroom. Ours was in the gun room; not that guns had been kept there for years. A dog bed was at the end of the room in front of the desk, so you stood in the dog bed to make a phone call. Anyway, I picked up the phone and a voice said “Number, please.” I slammed the phone down and ran away.
The phobia lasted for years. I didn’t mind answering a call, but I hated making one. It wasn’t just that barely-remembered memory; I was always sure that I’d ring at an inconvenient time and that the person at the other end would be irritated but too polite to say so. I found business calls much easier than personal ones, so I’m sure that was much of the reason. It was no better if I was going to invite someone for dinner or a similar jolly. I was convinced that they wouldn’t want to come and would be too polite to say so. The Sage issued all invitations for years.
I’ve got over it now. But I still find the whole thing about evening calls is difficult. How do you know when people have their evening meal? We eat around 7.30 – 8 ish usually, unless we’re early or late, but any time between 5.30 and 9.30 might catch people cooking or eating. Emails are so much simpler.
Anyway, I don’t have hang-ups (hee hee) about the phone now, but I still don’t much like it. So, this morning, I stopped thinking about the calls I needed to make and had done for a couple of weeks, and just made them. And now I feel quite free.
Did you know, you young people, that you used not to buy your own phone? They were all rented out by British Telecommunications (or was it always Telecom before it was BT?) and you had to pay a quarterly rent. When we moved house in 1976, we found one in a bedroom that, evidently, had been forgotten. We rigged up a line – we couldn’t get in the phone engineers as we shouldn’t have had it, and had the rare luxury of a phone in the bedroom. We still use that phone. It’s a bit crackly, but splendidly retro. We only answer calls though. However did we manage to dial numbers all those years? My finger always slips and I keep having to start again. Mind you, numbers are longer now and there’s more scope for mistakes. When I was a child, our number was Oulton Broad 40.