I’m confident that it is perfectly normal to talk to oneself occasionally.
It’s not as though I’m expecting a reply. I’m fully aware that Polly is a houseplant.
I watered her, then got on with some other household chores, thinking ahead to the moment when I could open my laptop
and check whether a certain handsome singer had posted any new information.
Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. Windows into a world of marvels.
While I was loading the washing machine, my telephone rang. A visitor and a phone call!
A red-letter day indeed. It was Raymond.
“I rang Bob’s mobile and explained the situation to him, and he dug out your number from the personnel files for me,” he said.
I mean, really. Was all of me on show in buff folders, splayed wide for anyone to flick open and do with as they wished?
“What a gross abuse of my privacy, not to mention an offense against the Data Protection Act,” I said.
“I’ll be speaking to Bob about that next week.” There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Well?” I said. “Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry. It’s just, you said you would call and you didn’t, and, well, I’m at the hospital now.
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