18 Textuality

Beep! Beep!

It was a text from my mum.

Hi luv. Me and your dad have been talking...

Hmm that sounds ominous...

...and we were just wondering...

Maybe not. Probably just want to know how to do something on the computer or ask when I'm going to pay them back the money I owe them.

...are you gay?...

What?!?!

We will still love you no matter what...

Oh well that's aright then! But still, what on earth? Why would they think that?

Ok, I have had my hair cut quite short. And I had been moaning to my mum about a particular guy only a few hours before. It wasn't code for 'I don't like men in general' though. I haven't started dancing on the other side of the ballroom.

There was more...

Also we've decided that your brother is our favourite child x

Ah right.

It was at this point that I knew there was definitely something suspicious going on. There is absolutely no way that they like my brother best. It's me that always calls them and sorts out their birthday presents, not him. Plus I've caused them far less trouble. It wasn't me that was brought home by the police one night because they'd caught me pissing against a wall.

No, something was occurring. I just wasn't sure what. It was actually as if my brother had sent the text from my mum's phone, but as she's in Edinburgh and he's in Southampton I couldn't fathom out how that could have happened.

I phoned my mum. As I waited for her to answer I realised how ridiculous it was going to sound that I was phoning to ask if she'd texted me enquiring whether I'm a lesbian. This resulted in me laughing after saying hi. One of those laughs where no sound comes out so my poor mum thought I was crying.

I finally managed to pull myself together and ask if she had texted me. She hadn't.

Curiouser and curiouser.

"So you don't think I'm a lesbian then?"

"Er, no."

"Good cause I'm not. I need to find out who thinks I am though..." and off I went, leaving my mum to panic about being a victim of identity fraud.

Next call was to my brother. "So how did you do it?"

After ten minutes of him saying he had no idea what I was going on about, and how he was 'far too busy' to be sending texts, I managed to get a confession out of him.

I'm afraid dear reader that I have to inform you that you can no longer believe any text you receive.

Your friend suggests meeting for lunch. Really?

Your local salon confirms your hair appointment. Pfff!

Your boyfriend thinks you should both have an early night. Whatever.

From now on you'll have to take everything with a pinch of salt because the worst phone application ever has been invented. One that lets you type in a 'to' number and a 'from' number and then whatever message you choose and off it pops to the recipient to appear in their inbox...

How evil is that?!

So be warned. I was lucky and there were no real consequences but you might not be so fortunate.

Of course there is the odd occasion when knowing that such an application exists could come in handy. When you wish you weren't the sender of a text.

Like when Taggart sent me a text after her third date with a nice man...

Loved up, loved up, loved up - that's what I am!x

Except she sent it to him instead...

13 Tell Tale Tits

One of the concierges greeted me with, "Talk of the Devil", as I arrived home yesterday.

I was quite excited because I love being talked about. If it's something good obviously. It's not so smashing if it is just someone moaning about you.

This was neither. Was actually a bit boring. Turns out it was just that they'd ran out of sugar and discussed that their favourite resident* should be home soon and would probably be able to lend them some. (*That's a title I've given myself by the way. I haven't actually won an award or anything. Yet.)

I suppose it is slightly odd that my concierges know so much about me. They would certainly kick my friend's asses in a quiz about me if the questions were things like...What hours does she work?...What mood was she in on Thursday?...What are in those little brown boxes she has delivered?

I love having concierges though. It makes me feel that someone cares. Even if it's only someone that is paid to. Every good home should have at least one. They sign for your parcels. They call you taxis. They ask how your day has been. They even tell you if it is time for you to dye your hair again cause it is looking a bit shit. Those essential things.

I must admit, there was one occasion though when I wasn't so keen on the whole service...

I'd come in to the Tower late one afternoon to find that the fire alarms had been going off and the lifts were grounded. The concierge told me they probably wouldn't be in use for another 20 minutes so suggested I either walk up the stairs or wait.

Walk??? Did I hear him right??? Walk up 40+ flights of stairs??? I don't think so. I decided to go to the pub instead...just for one mind, while I waited for the lifts...

It can feel a bit weird going to the pub on your own but I'd been in no time at all when a guy started chatting to me. He bought me a drink. We chatted a bit more. He then suggested having another drink. I suppose one more wouldn't do any harm? I mean I wouldn't want to go back until it was almost definite that the lifts were working again...

A few hours later there was a worried woman in Scotland. My mum. I'd said I was calling her that night because I needed some information from a letter I'd been sent up there. Not only had I not called but I also wasn't answering any texts or calls to my phone. This wasn't like her normally reliable, daughter.

More time passed and she was starting to really panic. Particularly as a few months earlier she'd witnessed me collapsing at the dinner table and ending up in hospital (yes, I promise to reveal every detail of that embarrassing story in a future post. It will be called The Sausage Incident..). She decided that that must have happened again. Or I was dead. Or worse.

She instructed my dad to call the concierges. (Ah yes, much better if someone else hears I'm dead first?) Asks them to go up to my apartment and check on me. I'm unsure whether she gave them permission to give me the kiss of life.

"That won't be necessary" they said to my dad. "She went out. She came back in hours later. She chatted to us. She told us all her problems. She's now gone upstairs. She's safe. She's going to have a very sore head tomorrow though..."

Tell tale tits.

The next day wasn't very good. Hangover from hell, in the bad books with my mum and dad and very embarrassed about seeing my concierges. Half expected them to tell me they'd had a good chat with my parents and had all decided it would be best if I was grounded for the foreseeable future...