caller

Discovering

Phone calls from call centre operators have been the bane of my existence for some time now. They ring on my landline at the most inappropriate of times, like just before the school drop off or pick up, and invariably at mealtimes, interrupting my daily yell to get the TV turned off and hands washed.

A ringing phone is something that’s hard to resist and being techno-challenged, I can’t quite find the ‘ringer off’ button on my phone. If I do, it’s likely that I won’t remember how to turn it back on again. So to keep life simple, I just don’t try. This warped philosophy allows persistent call centre operators to try and talk to me about everything from solar panelling, new phone plans, cheap calls to India, sorting out my computer problems, and of course, invitations to free dinners and seminars.

I’ve tried everything from blocking my number to pretending I can’t hear them, to just not answering the phone after 5pm, but I sometimes have to bow to the inevitable and endure a frustrating conversation trying to convince them that what they’re offering is of no value, or interest to me whatsoever.

But recently, I inadvertently came across a new weapon. The phone rang as usual at 5:15pm on a Monday, while I was busy getting dinner organised downstairs. As the hands-free was upstairs, I asked my older son to answer it.

“Hello!” he bellowed into the phone, probably creating a sizeable crack in the caller’s eardrum. The phone was on its speaker, so I could hear the conversation.

“Is your mum home?” asked a male voice, somewhat testily.

“What?”

“Is – your – mum – home?”

“Vhott?” Even louder.

“Your MUM. Is your mum home?” asked the voice, practically yelling this time.

“Huh? Whaat?”

“YOUR MUM!”

“My mum? My mum?” As if he had any other!

“Yes, yes, your mum!”

“I can’t hear you, did you say my mum?” being told off by his dad, who had inadvertently called the landline one day and had been treated to a few vociferous ‘What’s’. He had taken pains to explain the fundamentals of politeness, especially when communicating with unknown people over the phone, some of whom mum works with. Apparently some of that had indeed, made sense.

“Please can I speak to your

“How are you?” asked a suave voice.

“I’m okay, how are you?” asked my son, polite for once.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Sid, what’s yours?”

Now this is still a hotly debated subject. Did they say ‘Matt’ or ‘Bert’? Whatever it was, my son burst out laughing hysterically, “Butt, Butt, his name is Butt!” he yelled joyously and his younger

I’m now thinking of enlisting the younger one to the task, particularly because he has his own charming brand of eccentricity that lies only within the comprehension of close family. He has ‘opposite’ days and ‘repeat’ days, among other strange and hilarious traits like wishing people ‘Happy Birthday’ when it’s the New Year, and vice versa. I can just imagine the conversations.

“Hello!” avatar.

At this point I would take the phone from him, and if the caller is still on the line doubting their sanity, I would take at least a couple of minutes to actually listen to their selling spiel. They would need convincing that the world is, as they know it, a normal place. So that they could hang up and confidently move to the next caller… you, I hope!