don’t call me, i’ll probably call you.

I finally have a paid job.

Not a very well paid job, but a paid job nonetheless.

I have a total of 4 jobs in London and this is the first one that gives me pennies …that inevitably disappear into the clammy mits of my bank before I can even look at them let alone throw them into the air in jubilation come pay day. And if we are being pragmatic, my pay cheque is so pitiful that any kind of money shower would have to be made of loose change therefore making such a display less poetic than films lead you to believe and mainly just an incredibly dangerous event.

I digress.

I am now one of those people whose mere chirpy tone strikes fear/anger/outright rage into the hearts of a “wide cross section of the public”. Maybe I got your number from a “lifestyle survey”. Or perhaps you spoke to one of my colleagues and gave your details there. Either way I have your number. And I will call you. And yes, I will be asking you for money.

But it’s for charity. You already give to charity? Fantastic! It’s always nice to speak to other avid supporters. You feel like you do enough? Oh, but we can always do more to help those children/blind people/monkeys/pigeons. But you have to give me money every month or the children/blind people/monkeys/earthworms won’t love you. (And I may lose my job). Well maybe another time; it’s been simply wonderful to speak to you this evening. (No it hasn’t).

It’s alright, you probably haven’t been listening to a word I said/read from my script. You are probably deaf, incredibly aged or indeed- dead. I will continue calling though. Sometimes widows/widowers like to keep their former spouses direct debits going after they have passed on to the TPS* registered heavenly realm where all those children/blind people/monkeys/pigeons will all be waiting for you to thank you in person for your generous donations.

Rest assured, I will most definitley not be there. I will be doing an eternal triple shift in the toasty warmth of the most southernly call centre- a place of endless answering machines, where conversation is punctuated by the slam of a telephone, where that underlying, high pitched, tinitus inducing hum emitted through the dandruff covered headsets, will permeate through your skull for eternity.

old woman (flickr:evinoryan88)

Ah, my poor old dear whose record has not been retired from our system, you may be dead and I may still be calling you but at least you will never have to live with yourself knowing you had to do this job.

Your record will never be retired from my heart.

*TPS- Telephone Preference Service for non-call centre types.

This entry was published on February 12, 2010 at 7:28 pm. It’s filed under Writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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