It felt familiar. A few hours earlier I was caught in snarling traffic and as is my inclination, fell into a day dream, oblivious to the honking horns and the mediocre DJ patter on the radio around me. A brake light reverie. I too have a feeling I stole that last line.
For reasons inexplicable and unprompted I got nostalgic for crossed lines - those arbitary moments when your phone call got dropped into another's and you became the lucky unwitting voyeur. It was a GPO hiccup, the godfather of bugs in copperwire mire. You could never control when it happened but when it did it was was a telephonic treat and a truly guilty pleasure.
As I recall they were never juicy or lurid conversations. They were ladies discussing their families; workmen making arrangements and old people. Lots and lots of old people, talking about old people stuff. Very slowly. Come to think of it, it was the original reality television uncut. A glimpse into someone else's universe, however trivial but important to them. We would hang onto the line, hand over mouthpiece trying to control our breathing and desperate not to get caught. If another family member was in the room, we'd excitedly mouth "CROSSED LINE!!" and we'd huddle round the receiver hoping for something meaty. It never came of course. If it was your mate with you, you'd eventually give up, shout something offensive down the line and hang up in fits of hysterics. I was 10 then - but not entirely sure I wouldn't do the same now.
Our super modern crystal clear multi function digital phones have done away with crossed lines. We chatter and warble safe in the knowledge that our calls remain intrusion and voyeur free. Unless of course your name is Abdul, then every security wonk from here to the Pentagon still has their hands cupped over the mouthpiece.
And I can't say I've thought about them much. But for that brief fleeting moment in my car the other night, I missed them.
I
came home this evening to find a stuffed envelope addressed in apelike hand to my home but clearly not to me. I wish it was me. The name's Lois Cudjoe and I think that's a wonderful name.But it definitely wasn't for me. It was crossed mail.
Despite this, the mere fact that it was intended for my home, I felt, gave me the right to open it. I'm so glad I did. It contained a Jehovah's Witness 2008 diary complete with Theocratic Ministry School Schedules and space to annotate one's Bible Study Activity. Splendid.
On page one it reads:
"In case of emergency see durable power of attorney in wallet and contact:"
I have no idea what a durable power of attorney in wallet is nor do I ever want to. But the fact that Lois does know, and that's important to her, makes me feel once again that I've become an unwitting lucky voyeur.
I like this idea of crossed mail. At the very least it makes the dull mail drop far more entertaining. I think we should all occasionally throw open the phone book and send randomly chosen people glimpses of our own lives and things that are important to us.
So I'm going to anonymously return it back to the sender. Their address is right there on the front of the envelope. I'll send it back with something that is important to me.
A recipe for perfect spaghetti bolognese.
No comments:
Post a Comment