Not Able To Come To The Phone
The telephone makes me cross. That's because it's ALWAYS ME who answers it. If I'm showering or otherwise engaged Bert will still wait to see if I get it and then excuse himself by saying,
I was just too late, whoever it was rang off.
The phone rang the other morning and, as always, I answered it.
Hello, is Bertie there?
May I ask who's calling?
I carry the phone to him like a good wife.
Bert, it's the Health Centre. Maybe about your scan.
He had a DXA scan last week.
I gave him some privacy to take the call even though I was keen to hear what the health professionals had to say. Some minutes later he told me what had transpired.
Hello! I'm calling about the results of the test.
What does that mean?
Bert told me that he thought the caller was awfully abrupt for a health professional.
What shall I do?
There's nothing to be done!
But shall I come down to see you?
What! No. There's no point. There's nothing can be done.
At this point, Bert thought the caller extremely unsympathetic to him.
But is there not some advice I might need? Medication I could take?Oh dear. It was the Plant Health Inspector on the line. I should have cottoned on when she called him Bertie. That other lot always refer to him as Robert. Still, maybe it'll teach him to answer the phone himself instead of letting his half-deaf wife do it. Some hope!
What? I'm ringing about the wee ash tree. The test was positive for ash dieback. Nothing to be done.
Oh. I thought you were someone else.