My son phoned last night from New York, right near the end of The Mentalist, the show on CBS with Simon Baker. (My secret vice.) I wouldn't have answered anyone else's call.
The cell phone reception was terrible. Lots of banging and swishing and what sounded like his voice in the background, but garbled. I thought the noise was on my end, so I climbed part way up to the attic office, thinking it might clear if I got higher up. I kept saying: “Will, I cannot understand a word you’re saying…”
Finally after about three minutes of this, while I imagined that he was being mugged on a city sidewalk, the call went dead. By then, I was hyperventilating.
I phoned him back—went to voicemail. I phoned his office—went to voicemail. No way I’m going to phone his wife and panic her over this. So I texted him. Then I sent an MSM, whatever the heck that is. And finally I emailed him. The gist was the same in all of these: did u just call me? please let me know u r ok. (I hate text messages.)
About five minutes later I received this response:
“Don't think so. Maybe phantom dial while I was ordering pizza? Pocket dials can be pretty amusing.”
Amusing. Oh, yes. Absolutely.
Oh, by the way, I'm joining Deb in December Views.
My image for today is an abandoned farmhouse near Round Top: