Last night, just as I'd switched off all the lights to hit the sack, the phone rings. (My family have impeccable timing — it's genetic.) So out I trudge to the living room to silence the thing.
I am answered only by the sound of heavy breathing.
Luckily, I recognise that breathing, so I do not immediately panic and assume I am marked for a gruesome and grisly end.1
Instead, I adopt that crooning, cajoling tone popular the world over among those who have ever been treated to phone conversations with
the vocally challenged children. "Hello…..?"
Giggling from the other end, and then a SQUEAL TO BURST THE EARDRUMS. While I am still reeling, the story starts. I am not sure of the particulars because, well, did I mention the kid isn't so much with the talking yet? I caught "I makkit, makkit, mak…" and then it was interrupted by an angry yell and the bellow, "NAN! NAN! UGH! ARGH! NAN!"
Ah, I think. Nanna has rescued the phone, and soon I will be treated to rational conversation. She may even be able to act as interpreter, and tell me to what the makkit story pertained. Because I have to admit, now I'm a bit curious.
Instead…Nanna promptly hangs up on me.2
- Although the breathing, if I am right, belongs to Brutus — whose namesake was rather into meting out grisly ends, now that I think of it. [↩]
- Having since spoken to my mother, I learned that in the space of 90 seconds, Brutus managed to find her iPhone and make no less than 3 phone calls. Well, more actually, but those were the three that connected. We're all three of us suffering ruptured eardrums. That boy can squeal, I tell you. Sadly, I am still unenlightened as to the makkit story. [↩]