Phones and Bones

I was in the opticians the other day queueing patiently behind a bloke who was busy explaining to a poster that he was there for an eye test. I waited with my normal patient manner as he was eventually sorted out and, just as we were about to be served, the telephone rang whereupon the optician smiled sweetly and asked us to excuse him whilst he answered the call. WHY, in the name of all that's holy? Why should a telephone take precedence over a person? Have we reached the point in evolution when the insistent "answer me" of a phone's ring is more important than the person who has actually taken the trouble to get off their butt and actually come in? Is it the mystery of "who could it be?" That eternal hope that it might be someone interesting at the other end which inevitably ends in disappointment. As regular readers will know, I do seem to be eligible for the Grumpy Old Men's club but this is really one of my pet hates. Sadly, as Mrs B was just about to spend Swaziland's national debt on some new specs I felt it prudent to not make a fuss but contented myself with putting sticky thumbprints over the lenses of all the glasses on display.

It got me thinking about telephones and those halcyon days of my youth when my only involvement with them was the hopeful pressing of button B in the hope of getting some coins out of the local phone boxes. Since then, of course, we have had the mobile phone revolution and the effect it's had on lives. I noticed the other day that the phone box outside the flat had disappeared and my first thought was admiration at the ingenuity of the local scallies but apparently it was removed by BT some months before as it was no longer cost effective and there was already a public convenience around the corner.


I got a phone call the other day from BT. I knew it was goimg to be a bad one when he asked how I was? - another thing that really pees me off. Resisting the temptation to take him through all the ailments Mrs B and I have had in the last few months I answered that I was jolly well and expressed the wish that he also was similarly chipper. He went quiet for a while and then asked me if I had considered taking my call package back to BT and could I tell him with whom I had my account at the moment? As luck would have it, I had been sent a bill only that morning and the conversation then went something like this:

I currently have my account with Pipex but use my mobile predominantly.

Ah, I'm sure we can save you money so can you tell me how much your last bill was?

(Gotcha!) By all means, £1.38

pause............But we can offer you free evening and weekend calls

I have those with my mobile

Erm, well there are lots of other things we can offer you.

Really? Like what?

Well, we have a package that gives you free evening and weekend calls which costs nothing.

Yes, you mentioned that just now but you seem to be missing a vital point here.

What's that?

You charge for all the other calls don't you, so tell me how I can save money?

Thank you for your time, sir. Have a nice day.

I'm afraid I don't see BT as part of British life any more. My own personal feeling is that they started going downhill when they withdrew the Trimphone and its wonderfully evocative ringtone (of which, incidentally, I can do an excellent imitation). Right, rant over. What other exciting things have happened in the Bassett household recently? The sojourn down in Zummerzet last week was great and will be the subject of a separate blog and the only other excitement was an MRI scan last Monday.

I've had them before so no worries there and I duly set off for the hospital with my iPod primed, book in hand and a supply of emergency Caramac bars in case of a really long wait. RSCH X-Ray Dept has a nice, comfy waiting room and I arrived about 25 minutes early as you need to allow several hours to find a parking place within a radius of 5 miles. I was pleasantly surprised to find my name called withing 2 minutes and was instructed to go into a cubicle and put on one of those lovely gowns that haute couture specialists have spent ages designing to be as unflattering as possible.


Having spent several minutes trying to tie the stupid thing so that my bum wasn't hanging out I duly took a seat in a corridor as instructed. Now, call me paranoid but I'm sure they saw me coming and I was set up to provide entertainment for the passing throng. I sat there, feeling extremely silly, for 35 sodding minutes! Talk about feeling embarrassed as the sniggers echoed down the corridor. I was wondering why passers-by kept standing behind me and grinning when I suddenly realised what was happening. You know at Alton Towers, Thorpe Park and the like, they take your photo as you plummet, screaming, down some ride or other and then flog it to you for several quid? The hospital had obviously decidied to supplement it's income by selling photos posing with the begowned loony with the knobbly knees and the bored expression! I had just started signing autographs for a load of Japanese tourists when I was called in for the scan thus ending a truly lovely experience.

Oh, and incidentally, when you're slid into the scanner rather like the hotdog into a roll and told not to move otherwise the scan is ruined, getting cramp in one's back is not advisable. The radiographer, once it had finished, said she'd heard me humming along to the music on the headphones and my ego wouldn't let me admit to it actually being me whimpering in agony as I tried to keep still.