My dinner parties are an exercise in patience. People used to tell me how much money they’d made buying in Islington when they did. ‘Good for you,’ I’d say, hating them just a little. I’ve noticed that recently my friends have stopped telling me how much equity they’d managed to suck out and try to change the subject whenever I bring house prices up — which I do with increasing pleasure and regularity.
The other day I woke up to shouting. ‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’ Her voice was shrill with hurt, anger and profound disappointment. ‘What good is saying sorry? You’re not sorry. Not as sorry as I am.’ Sara, my fiancée, is normally a kind and forgiving person. I wondered who had so grievously wronged her. Had she been disinherited? Fired? Was I to blame? Normally I assume I’m in the wrong unless there is evidence to the contrary — it’s safer that way. She was on the phone to a call centre. Call centres are both victims and perpetrators — the abuser and the punching bag of England. She was verbally abusing — I reminded her of this throughout the day — an innocent nine-to-fiver. The dispute involved a direct debit that didn’t work, a broken modem and something to do with an Asian movie channel. I kept thinking how much Sara had changed but that on the brighter side of things I could ‘use’ this at my next dinner party.
Weeks ago we had ordered an ‘indie’ movie channel — we meant ‘indie’ in the arty film sense, something with subtitles. ‘Oh, you like Bollywood movies.’ ‘Yes, very much,’ I said, not wanting to offend the call-centre man. ‘Which ones?’ I couldn’t answer him. It is just like when classical buffs ask me which composers I like.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Don't miss out
Join the conversation with other Spectator readers. Subscribe to leave a comment.
UNLOCK ACCESSAlready a subscriber? Log in