My mate Andy phoned me last night. He phones now and again for a chat. He enjoys chatting.
So I took the phone through to the place in the house with a poor signal and answered. I could just about hear him but he couldn't hear me. Eventually the poor signal deteriorated to no signal at all and the line dropped. So I went back to watching the Munster game in peace.
There was a time, not so very long ago, when phone conversations with my mates were along the lines of:
Hey
Pint?
Yup
Friday at 8, Staggs?
Aye, see you then
Bye
Sometimes the above conversation could be obviated entirely by actually arranging the pint the week before. In person, while drunkenly staggering out of Staggs. And, regular as clockwork, everyone would be there the following week at 8. These were simpler times.
Now everyone wants to chat. Even men. It's all gone a bit arse over tit, if you'll forgive the expression.
From what I could make out, Andy wanted to have a chat about the Scottish poet William Topaz McGonagall. Now I'd normally be more than happy to discuss the merits and demerits of McGonagall at great length so long as I was safely ensconced in the snug of Milne's Bar with a pint of 80/- in front of me (and possibly 3 or 4 behind me). Certainly not over the phone.
Honestly, if it wasn't for emergencies, I'd seriously consider disabling my phone's voice function.
Settings / Phone / Voice / Off.
2 comments:
What a truly bizarre turn of events.
There are few activities in life that are less fun than talking to your male chums on the phone about something that doesn't involve the name of a pub and a time.
Watching a stupid rugby game however is one of those things.
Wasn't there some paint you could watch drying?
Oh, and were any arrangements made for the pub tomorrow?
No he seemed to only want to discuss poetry. Mrs M appears to have a pirates class or something...
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