By Stephen Mander
I get a phone call from this guy. He asks if he could make an appointment. I say, “What kind of appointment?” and he goes: “Seriously? You want me to spell it out?” So I think about it a bit and say, “Actually, no, I don’t,” and put the phone down.
Five minutes later the phone rings again. This time it’s a different guy, and he doesn’t bother asking a question. He says: “I’d like to make an appointment for ten o’clock this evening,” his voice sounding like he’s done this before.
So I think about it. I could ask him what kind of appointment again, or something like, I’m busy then, but I could pencil you in at, say, eleven o’clock next Tuesday, but I don’t. I say, “Fine, see you then,” and go through to the kitchen and tell Jess, my flatmate, two guys have called asking for appointments.
She says, “And what did you say?” I tell her yes to one, no to the other, and she says, “Do they know where we live?” They don’t. At least I didn’t tell them.
“They probably won’t come.”
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