Jul 16, 2002
Liverpool calling
Woken up this morning at half seven by a phone call to my mobile from Liverpool.
Not the whole city, obviously – that would just be weird. Nearly a million crammed up against the mouthpiece, and one massive scouse shriek of “Awright kidder!” No, not the city. But a Liverpool number all the same.
People or institutions in Liverpool who may be calling me:
- The university (to take back my degree?)
- A professor in my old department (to congratulate me on making such excellent and effective use of my degree since graduation)
- My downstairs neighbour from the house in Ullett Road in which I lived during fourth year, who was last reputed to be pregnant with the lovechild of a scouse taxi driver, and working in a Lark Lane brasserie. Not sure how she would have got my number, though.
- The passport office (though they don’t open until ten, and only on the second tuesday of each month, as I discovered when queuing to renew mine in 1994)
- My old boss from the 051cinema (though it has since closed down, and I haven’t heard from him since 1997 anyway)
- S and L, who I lived with at the beginning of second year (he thought he heard the voice of god, she relieved herself in a pint glass, and last I heard (in 1998) they’d had a baby boy)
- Um. That’s it
Whoever it was, they didn’t leave a message, and now I am staring at the number and wondering whether to call. But then, if you call, what do you say?
“Someone rang me from this number first thing this morning. Who are you?”
It was probably a wrong number. But maybe…
