Brennig wonders how anyone could ring anyone else at 2.30am about a car. All I can add in terms of data points is that my birthday began earlier than I had planned this morning, as someone who’s either a quondam Iraqi translator, gangland supergrass, or Russian billionaire fallen from grace texted K. at a little after 7am. I’d like to think it was as urgent as their circumstances would suggest, but I don’t think “HOWS IT GOIN?” or its equivalent really conveys any sense of threat to life.
Now, I wouldn’t want anyone to treat my birth-Saturday morning lie-in as especially sacrosanct—after all, I was already on the borderlands of wakefulness, trying to ignore the elderly relatives we’re visiting as they rebuilt their patio before breakfast—but I’m rather glad that, once I’d found out from whom the text had come, nothing I said was on the record. It might ruin my liberal credentials once and for all.
(I think it’s fair to say that the seclusion of village life has sent us both a bit peculiar. Neither of us can quite stomach being contacted by other human beings these days. It’s reached the point where, whenever the land line rings at home, both of us yell “fuck off” at it until one of us reaches it, at which point he or she puts on his best telephony voice to answer the call. But it’s only a matter of time before we continue swearing, long after picking up the receiver. If so, then don’t take it personally, will you? We don’t have caller ID or anything.)