Numbers on the telephone…

But first…
Dulltown, Europe: Today’s creased old black and white snapshot is the one of me and Charlton Heston posing with our hunting rifles on the banks of the Ohio.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

‘Hello… Hello…’
‘Yes? How can I help you?’
‘Thank God! A real person! I sick of listening to all that bloody Vivaldi fiddle music, and all that, “Your call is important to us.” nonsense.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, what?…’
‘Yes… what can I do for you sir?’
‘Right, I’d like to give you my gas meter reading… it’s 216…’
‘Hang on sir, I don’t think that you pressed the correct number on your phone.’
‘Oh really? I think I did!… I pressed ‘4’ to “give my gas meter reading”.’
‘I don’t think so…’
‘Oh?… So what do you think that I pressed?… You petty bureaucrat!…’
‘Hm… I’ll let that slide for the moment. I think that you pressed ‘5”
‘Oh, and what is ‘5’ for then?’
‘Didn’t you listen to the nice lady’s voice?’
‘Of course I did!’
‘Well, ‘5’ is for “Talk to a rude bastard” – that’s me.’
‘Are you having me on?’
‘No sir… and now, if you’d like to give me your gas meter reading, in a slow and clear voice…’
‘Right… It’s 216…’
‘Just a minute dickhead, let me get a pencil…’
‘What!… A pencil?’
‘Yes okay, right, I’m ready, go ahead sir.’
‘It’s 216…’
‘I expect you thought that I’d have a computer here.’
‘Yes, I did… Are you listening? It’s 216…’
‘Hang, you dog’s dinner, my pencil needs sharpening, I really hate a rounded lead on my pencil – let me just put the phone down for a moment whilst I retrieve my penknife from my overcoat pocket…’
‘What?! I’m going to report you to your superiors!’
‘I have no superiors, you bag of dusty worms!…’
‘Dusty worms?’
‘Yes, you fly-speck on a light bulb!… Right let us continue, 316…?’
‘No, no, no, you imbecile! 216!’
‘Imbecile? Is that the best you can do? You bruised peach on a pink plate!’
‘Look here, do you really work for British Gas?’
‘In a way…’
‘What do you mean, “In a way”?’
‘So, 316…? What comes next, you bleak sweaty night on a couch?’
‘You! You!…’
‘Yes?’
‘You, exploded Bunbury!…’
‘Oh, very nice! A literary insult! Perhaps I should respond in kind… you are a fat, slimy, shrub-bending, half-witted knuckle-dragger!’
‘Good God!…’
‘Good God, indeed! You strange stain on a priest’s frock!… So, your reading sir, 316…’
‘No, no, you piss-pot upstart jackdaw! 216! 216! – for heaven’s sake!’
‘Heaven’s sake?…’
‘Shut up! And anyway she didn’t mention “press 5″ at all, she went from ‘4’ straight to ‘6″
‘No number ‘5’…’
‘No, you Plantagenet bastard offspring!’
‘Oh, I do like that –  a bit of history – I like a bit of history!… Ox chops!’
‘”Ox chops”? That’s novel…’
‘Ox chops in a screw-top Tupperware flask!’
‘Oh?…’
‘Yes, with knobs on, you guttersnipe!’
‘Molecule on a fried egg!’
‘Sludge-beast rampage!’
‘You dropped omelette!… So, if I should phone British Gas… and press ‘5’…’
You’d get me.’
‘Right…’
‘Right then…’
‘So, same time tomorrow then?’
‘Okay…’

(Bunbury)

 

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in brain, conversation, drama, dreaming, expletives, humour, information, surrealism, theatre, words and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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