Ah yes the first day of the rest of my life. Do I have to get up? It’s my life, and I’d much rather spend it in bed if possible. You’ve heard of work at home, surely? And if I work at bed, who cares? I like working at bed. I will sit in bed with the laptop, my notes on some project, my book, my cup of tea, happily buried in blankets, paper and crumbs.
Thank goodness for modern technology, eh? Without it, we’d be divided. Our only contact with the outside world might be the newspapers that pile up unread on the kitchen table next to the marmalade. A sticky business. Or, that bane of all writers and other creative entities, the telephone apparatus, that which is apparently for the use of cold callers and people from foreign countries shrilly interrupting your dinner, nap, or favourite t.v. show with their enthusiastic parroting of trivia about one thing or the other which you need to urgently respond to without delay or be up the creek.
Fast forward to the new millennium and they have found an
even better way to invade your world. They have recorded voices who call you to
leave desperate messages on your answering machine advising you that your
interest rates are far far too high and you are in mortal danger of paying more
than you need to pay so press one to speak to a representative or better yet
dial 1-800-YourInterestRatesAreLethal immediately.
As I open the email that contains my telephone bill and
attempt not to spill my tea in amazement, I wonder. I really wonder. I wonder,
really. I mean, is it only me that wonders? Really? Let’s see. I pay. I pay to
have the convenience of a telephone so I can call my mother on rare occasions.
Or order pizza. And, for this, I get to spend good money every month. Ergo my
cash supports the great and awesome industry of telephone solicitation. Many
callers owe their jobs to me. Without me, they would not feed their children.
Gosh. Now I’m feeling guilty for hanging up.
