The close call

The first generation iPhone.

The lesser known d-i-y-Phone

Someone recently posted this question on the Ask website:

What does it mean when you dream that the phone is ringing and you wake up and find no evidence…that anyone actually called?

The question was resolved by a user called Emily, who said:
That’s a “wake up call”, adding “it happens to people once in their life time.

The source she gave for this answer was “experience”.

Unfortunately for my friends, it happens rather regularly; and all because I can’t be trusted with a telephone.

Just the other morning, in my slumbered hurry to turn back my alarm another hour – it was only 8.30, after all – the phone dropped out of my hand and miraculously called Clarisse.

Normally when I pick up the phone to her, I start off with a slurping lick-lipping sound and then, in my best Anthony Hopkins voice, say “Hello, Clarisse…”

In this instance, she heard nothing, however. Thinking something was therefore wrong, she rang back. Anyway, it was all a terribly boring mixup that involved a lot of both of us asking “no, you called me…”.

In any case, the phantom phone call she was privy to was certainly at the boring end of my scale. Right at the other end of that scale, is my boss from the Police magazine in Melbourne. One morning, she came to work with an smile a hippopotamus would be proud of. At lunch time she cracked.

“Ok, I just have to tell you!” she told me. “I can’t keep it a secret any longer!” It should be noted that the “it” she was talking about, was far from a secret, having been told to everyone at the office already except for me.

She proceeded to recount how on waking up Sunday morning she saw there had been a  missed call from me. How unusual, a missed call on Sunday morning.

At 1.15am. Diligent I may be, but this was probably not a call about official business. Half her luck, I’d apparently left her a voice mail. A 17-minute long voicemail, that she listened to in its entirety, twice, just to make she had properly noted “all the good bits”.

The mail started off with some ambient noise. The phone had been in my pocket and I’d sat on it. The first voice was a girl’s voice, giving directions to her house. She thought she’s already hit jack-pot here, assuming I was on my way home with some girl and had accidentally rung her. I was there too, ranting about some “documents” or some such.

But then she heard a third voice – a rather tetchy Indian-accented voice that quite clearly said: “Please Sir, You cannot do that in the taxi, Sir!”

If that sounded bad enough, my response was even more incriminating.

“It’s alright, I work with Victoria Police,” my voice was heard saying.

From what I can piece together from the fragmented memory of that night, we were actually heading out – not home. We were actually a few guys, and a girl friend, who had had wanted to swing past her house to collect her handbag.

As for my ‘illegal’ activity, I’d suggest it was either someone mundane as sitting without a seatbelt, or drinking a beer. And even if my boss’ suspicions were true, is it illegal to make out with someone in the backseat of a moving taxi? Even for those who work with the police?


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