A perplexing email has arrived from one John Roskam at the Institute of Public Affairs in Melbourne, Australia. In the subject field it says: ‘Hey! What did I miss? Xxx’.
I have racked my brains but am reasonably sure I have never met Mr Roskam. What’s more, I’m comfortably of the opinion that I have never solicited kisses from him. As I read on, he informs me that the Australian government has just passed a new law stipulating how much insecticide you’re allowed to have in goat fat. What I’m supposed to do about all this — the goat fat, the kisses, the things Mr Roskam might have been missing — is not made clear. But it is now weighing heavily on my mind. Perhaps Mr Roskam would like to get in touch again to let me know how I can help. Could he confirm whether he really does desire my amorous attention, or whether, as I suspect, his long-distance protestations of love are a cruel scam and he actually wants me to write an article about overbearing insecticide regulations.
Of course, Mr Roskam is not the only one at it. My inbox is stuffed full of emails from strangers drenching me in overfamiliar hi!’s and how are ya?’s. It’s all a far cry from the good, honest, decent way corporations used to try to manipulate you. We used to know where we were with cold calling. Someone would ring up, say, ‘Can I speak to the home owner?’ and bombard you with talk of double-glazing.
Those were simple, halcyon days. Furnished immediately with details of what was being foisted on you, you could make speedy arrangements to make it go away. My father had a trusted method. He would politely tell whoever was calling, no matter what they were selling, that he already had lots of it, whatever it was. ‘Oh, that’s very kind of you to offer,’ he would tell the man from Everest, ‘but my wife and I had a lovely new set of UPVC windows installed only last week. Yes, and a conservatory. It certainly is a very tasteful enhancement…’ And so on until the man from Everest actually put the phone down on him.
Now cold calling is so complicated, its purpose so hidden behind layers of obfuscation, it is quite impossible to escape. You know the drill. Your phone rings. There is a long gap during which you are forced to embarrass yourself by saying, ‘Hello? Hello? Darling, is that you?’ and then, finally, a voice with an Indian or a Scottish accent, always one or the other, says, ‘Hello, Miss Kite, I need to ask you a few security questions before we can continue.’ No amount of squealing ‘but you called me, you cheeky cow!’ will get you out of the interrogation. You go through with it because there is always a tiny part of you panicking that it might be the bank calling to say that your credit cards have been cloned and you are £50,000 in debt. So you answer their impertinent questions about your mother’s maiden name and the last three characters of your postcode and the colour of your favourite pet, which, they claim, is a piece of information you once offered them — whoever they are — as your preferred method of being differentiated from impostors and impersonators.
And when all this madness is over, they say, ‘You’re now through security!’ as if you should prostrate yourself with gratitude. Again, no point protesting that when you answered a ringing phone on your way to the toaster five minutes ago you never wanted to go through security. You just wanted to have breakfast. This going through security project was all their idea. They ought to be thanking you. She goes on to explain that she is indeed calling from your credit-card provider and has something to tell you about a service you should have but don’t that is so complicated you cannot work out if she is indeed trying to tell you that all your money has been stolen, or if she is trying to sell you some pointless insurance.
Twenty minutes later you are no wiser and all you can do is tell her to call back later when you’ve had time to think about whether you want to buy the ‘essential protection’ she is offering or whether you want to scream at her to bugger off and let you eat your toast.
This is why I need more information from you, Mr Roskam. As your email presently stands, I have no idea if I should thank you for the tip-off about goat fat and insecticide or tell you I have lots of insecticide-free goat fat already, thank you very much. Please advise. Xxx.
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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