Romance of the phone

Sometimes I don't know why I bother to keep a land line. Almost none of the calls I get on it are from people I know any more.

It is useful if I oversleep, though. I was up late last night, and was still sleeping peacefully at 9:30 this morning. No problem. Florida called, right on cue. When I fumbled for the phone I still didn't have my glasses on, so at first I didn't know it was her.

She played coy. Never said a word. But she got me up all right. Ringing phone, you pick it up. Just like in a hotel. Of course you can program all that sort of thing into a cell phone, but that can be labour intensive. Over time, it might even lead to Blackberry Thumb.

It's better to leave it to Ontario or Connecticut, and be surprised. Last week I got a call from New Jersey. She didn't have much to say, but it was still nice to hear from her. Even if her voice did sound a bit like a recording.

When Quebec calls, he speaks in French, a lovely mellifluous voice. To borrow a phrase from a play at the Arts Club a few years ago, "I love it when a man speaks to me in a language I can't understand."

This week, North Carolina and Arizona both rang, but I missed their calls. California checked in too. She's another regular. When North Dakota called, I felt really popular. Hadn't heard from her before.

But the real coup was Washington. I'm one of a privileged few now. How many people can say that Washington called them at home?