I was a tad bored, I must confess. Sitting at my dining table in a swanky Lusaka restaurant called "Rhapsody's", I swished through the pages of Africa Geographic and thought I wonder whom I could call to have a chat with. Mind you, the menu, which is pictured below, was rather thought-provoking in itself.
My good friend in Maryport sprang to mind. I dialled and got through with a crystal clear connection from Zambia to England.
We talked about many things, but the opening sentence set the scene and I was challenged about why I was calling. The assumption was either that I had been stood up by a date, or the electricity had gone off (again) and I was bored. Well, needless to say I was slightly miffed by the insinuation, but continued to talk to my so-called chum regardless.
There were discussions about schooling and the British press and even a momentary murmur a propos UK high-street fashion. I was trying to end the conversation with my garrulous gal on the other end by saying I should really hang up and was accused of having to put a 50p in the meter to keep talking. This lead me to telling a tale of when I was about 8 or so and me another young schmuck were hijacked on our way home from primary school by a rather histrionic grandmother claiming her electric meter (remember those?) was jammed and the imminent power cut would render her cold and cooker-less.
She implored us to rush to the local electricity provider (NORWEB as it was – remember that?!) and ask for help. My friend and I duly sped down the street and barged into the “showroom” as they were called back in those days.
We explained the lady’s plight and gave her coordinates. The lady behind the counter, sighed, laughed, scowled and finally imparted to us that the silver-haired granny in question was a known hijacker-of-kids-on-their-way-from-school and should be condescended to but not taken seriously. She had a habit of stuffing the meter full of 50p coins out of fear and probably had enough coins jammed in there to last a week. My friend and I continued on our merry way with a mouthful of Black Jacks (now who remembers those!!!) and went home.
I do hope the granny didn’t freeze to death. But I shall never know – the hijacking was a one-off occurrence.
And so my chatty counterpart and I continued for another 10 minutes or so. I persisted, I must go. And then came the thunderbolt. “Oh, I see, you really do need a 50p for the meter, don’t you?! No wait...” she pursued, “perhaps you could maximise your 50p...!” I was intrigued to know how. “Well,” she continued, “you don’t put it in the meter and that way you’ll be plunged into darkness and the date that you’re denying is waiting for you in the wings will be spared the embarrassment of your visog.”
Well to say I was miffed, is an understatement, but not for the reason you’re perhaps thinking. I was annoyed she’d delivered the same witty remark I was about to make before her – and the cow beat me to it.
That’s when you know you have a real friend.
Anyone got a spare 50p?
My good friend in Maryport sprang to mind. I dialled and got through with a crystal clear connection from Zambia to England.
We talked about many things, but the opening sentence set the scene and I was challenged about why I was calling. The assumption was either that I had been stood up by a date, or the electricity had gone off (again) and I was bored. Well, needless to say I was slightly miffed by the insinuation, but continued to talk to my so-called chum regardless.
There were discussions about schooling and the British press and even a momentary murmur a propos UK high-street fashion. I was trying to end the conversation with my garrulous gal on the other end by saying I should really hang up and was accused of having to put a 50p in the meter to keep talking. This lead me to telling a tale of when I was about 8 or so and me another young schmuck were hijacked on our way home from primary school by a rather histrionic grandmother claiming her electric meter (remember those?) was jammed and the imminent power cut would render her cold and cooker-less.
She implored us to rush to the local electricity provider (NORWEB as it was – remember that?!) and ask for help. My friend and I duly sped down the street and barged into the “showroom” as they were called back in those days.
We explained the lady’s plight and gave her coordinates. The lady behind the counter, sighed, laughed, scowled and finally imparted to us that the silver-haired granny in question was a known hijacker-of-kids-on-their-way-from-school and should be condescended to but not taken seriously. She had a habit of stuffing the meter full of 50p coins out of fear and probably had enough coins jammed in there to last a week. My friend and I continued on our merry way with a mouthful of Black Jacks (now who remembers those!!!) and went home.
I do hope the granny didn’t freeze to death. But I shall never know – the hijacking was a one-off occurrence.
And so my chatty counterpart and I continued for another 10 minutes or so. I persisted, I must go. And then came the thunderbolt. “Oh, I see, you really do need a 50p for the meter, don’t you?! No wait...” she pursued, “perhaps you could maximise your 50p...!” I was intrigued to know how. “Well,” she continued, “you don’t put it in the meter and that way you’ll be plunged into darkness and the date that you’re denying is waiting for you in the wings will be spared the embarrassment of your visog.”
Well to say I was miffed, is an understatement, but not for the reason you’re perhaps thinking. I was annoyed she’d delivered the same witty remark I was about to make before her – and the cow beat me to it.
That’s when you know you have a real friend.
Anyone got a spare 50p?
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