It has been a black weekend with the telephone.
Normally it sits – not exactly loved but tolerated – on a shelf in the corner of the room and disturbs us but rarely. A polite ring every Friday evening from my mother to stay in touch. The odd call from work that may elicit a sigh or two. On occasion, when the phone is being a very naughty boy, it allows call centres to sneak through and sully my family quality time. On such occasions it gets a curled lip as its reward and its receiver banged down unceremoniously into its cradle.
Bad phone. BAD phone!
This weekend though it became a true delinquent. I’ve lost count of how many times it rang and always, always, always with crap news:
My granddad had a mini collapse on Friday and has ended up in hospital with diarrhea...
A false fire alarm activation early Sunday morning saw me stuck at work from 02.30 am to 07.30 am...
We were then plagued by endless phone calls after these events from people chasing their own tails for "more up-to-date information..."
A seemingly endless klaxon of ringing.
So not a lot of sleep was had over the weekend.
I returned home Sunday morning like a zombie, in time for breakfast and to find the kids were already up and bouncing off the walls.
Trying to catch up on sleep was a joke.
Every time I tried to chill and get my head down the phone would go yet again with more updates about my granddad or work colleagues enquiring about the fire alarms.
The phone seemed to sense just when my eyes were closing and my head beginning to nod...
Anyway my granddad is stable and relatively OK. That’s the most important thing. He’s having various tests done this morning but is quite chatty and has some of his old feistiness back.
Which is more than can be said for me.
I feel like a wet rag tossed into an inanimate pool of pre-primordial soup. It’s not a good look.
Anybody want to buy a telephone?
One careful owner. Shotgun pellets come imbedded as standard.