First, you woke me up at… uggh, good grief, this cannot be… 3.48 am.
Then, your phone number, displayed on the tiny screen of my phone, had to be made up of a lot more than the usual seven or eight digits.
Plus, you had to speak in a language that I do not understand, and in an unfriendly, threatening tone no less.
After going through the motions twice, I switched off the phone and spent the next two-and-a-half hours with some unproductive tossing and turning in bed before reluctantly getting up again to prepare for the day.
One text message received, so says my phone when I switched it on again later.
Read the said text message. Blink. Re-read. A few times. Still could not understand that foreign-yet-not-too-alien language from a neighbouring country.
Like the universal “hello”, we probably should already have coined a well-recognised word that can be understood by all whenever a call is inadvertently connected to the incorrect number.
However, recent events show that a simple and impatient mutter of “wrong number”, albeit at a half-awake state in the wee hours of the morning, hardly does the trick anymore.
It makes me wonder, for instance:
How could anyone dial the number incorrectly, persistently, so many times?
Why must the call be placed at such an ungodly hour?
Have I somehow inherited my current number from a serial killer with plenty of other skeletons in his closet?
Was it just a mini blunder courtesy of the mobile services provider?
Will I be unceremoniously dragged out of bed to assist in some police investigations next?
The contents of the text message and the growling tone of the caller still gives me the shivers today, mainly because I do not know what it was all about.
I do not like this at all.