I’ve got this bloomin’ stoopid habit.
I store people’s names in my mobile phone as wacky nicknames. Not nicknames that they would recognise themselves or that anyone else uses to describe them. Not entirely appropriate nicknames either.
This ridiculous and clumsy system is very hard to operate. First I have to come up with the absurd name and then, each time that I need to ring them, I have to find it again.
I needed to phone Martin Bacon the other day and it was ages before I realised that I had stored him under the name “Streaky”. Logically, his father is stored next to him as “Smokey.” I wouldn’t call either of them by these names to their respective faces.
My phone is full of ridiculous names. There are quite a few names now that I just don’t recognise.
Who is Gas Barry for goodness sake? Or “The Photo Guy.” I think that “Minty” is for someone called Murray but I’m not truly certain. I bought a machine for the packhouse that automatically folds and seals cartons and, since I’m not likely to buy another one for a while, I recorded the name of the salesrep as Mr Box Closing Man.
Andrew Booth is in as “Scotch Boothy” not that there’s anyone else in the phone called just “Boothy.” We call our agronomist, Robert Boothman, “Boothy” but obviously in the phone he is stored as “Bob Bootman.”
Part of the thinking here (well, what little thinking there is) is to control who is first and last in the phone book. This means that if my big clumsy bottom sits on the phone and makes an accidental call, it will be to someone that I know. If my greatest ever fear becomes a reality; that I should unwittingly call someone while I am singing in the car, then it will be Ali or Will that have to listen to the unimaginable racket.
