No phone, no Internet

So my phone has been at MTN for almost three weeks now. It’s aerial is fucked and getting fixed. Hence I have been using a crappy model as a loan phone – a model possibly dating back to the early 1980s. With only enough memory to store twenty text messages, that sort of thing.
Albeit, I have added ten or so numbers to this shite phone – the ones I’d use everyday– because I don’t want to duplicate all 200 names I have in there.
This is good and bad for two reasons.

The good being I can’t phone up people I haven’t spoken to for a while for a fat old chat. Meaning I will have an extremely low phone bill this month. Numbers that aren’t in there cannot be called, see.

The bad being I receive text messages from numbers I can’t recognise. And I can’t send the obligatory “Hi, who is this?’ to mates that may get offended and think I’ve deleted them from my phonebook.

There’s a decorum of politeness I have to keep. Which means I have to bullshit my way through a lot of:
“Hi Peas! Long time no hear, how are you? When are we getting together for a drink?”

I have to tread carefully. Is this a girl or a boy? (It really helps when people sign their names at the end). The answer should cross both gentrified divides, and be general, but not too general, like this:
Hi babe! It’s been ages! Yes, how about pulling into Turtle Creek on Friday, we’ll all be there, looking forward to seeing [who] you [are].”

Let’s take the last couple of examples:

“Hi Peas, keep the 28th open please, I’m having my birthday party then, down by the river at my house.”
[Hmmmm…shit. A river by a house? Have I been here before?]
Course I will. Please send me more details on email [which would make you instantly recognisable].

“Hey Peas, Happy New Year, how are you, and when we going for a drink?”
[No. Recollection. Or. Clue. Whatsoever.]
Hi dollface, let’s meet Wednesday, Espresso Parkhurst? Wear a red shirt.
“Why a red shirt?”
You know, red looks great on you.
“Red looks revolting on me!”
Only joking. Maybe wear a green one instead.

“Hi babe, it’s my house warming on Saturday, please pull into my place at 12.”
[Errrrrrm]…which house again?
“My house silly! My new one in Parkhurst!”
[Who of the six people I know living in Parkhurst could this be?] Can’t remember the address sweetie, sorry, could you resend it please?”
(Then much later on…Ah! It’s Kate. Interesting.)

“Dude I still have your pink belt, sorry man.”
[Who has my pink belt? I leant out my pink belt??] Awesome thanks, drop it off whenever you like.
(Then much later on…Moogs! What the hell you doing with my pink belt?)

“Hi Peas, hope you’re well, just checking in to see how you are and hope we can be friends. I know things ended badly and we’ve both moved on, but it would be good to hear from you all the same.”
[Which ex-boyfriend is this?] Awesome, thanks. I’m great. And so is the sex.

Then when an unknown number pops up on my ringing phone, I need to immediately try to identify the voice. Yesterday I made a faux pas with Third Roommate who I haven’t seen in ages. “Hi dude! How’s it going?”
Peas: Errrrm, he-lo….there….guy.
3RM: So how you dude, what’s been happening?
Peas: [It’s a male, my age, oh come on Peas, think, think, think] I’m great….I think? How, are you? [unknown person that sounds awfully familiar]?
3RM: Sorry I haven’t been around lately, life has been hectic, crazy, I’ll tell you all about it.
Peas: [ting! Lightbulb!] Dude, WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN! I CAN HARDLY RECOGNISE YOUR VOICE IT’S BEEN SO LONG!

Can’t wait to get my old phone back with all its numbers. My phone bill will once again sky rocket into astronomical monetary proportions, but at least I’ll know who the eight people I’ve invited to Turtle Creek are.