Voice mail
Um. I’m a grown woman. I’ve done things in my life, traveled the world, written books, birthed two babies, married Mr Brilliant, learned how to play bass clarinet and oboe and bassoon, escorted the first woman on the PRC Central Committee around the U.S. for a month, built gingerbread castles to scale, and even kept jade plants alive for hours on end. And yet today I am thrilled beyond thrilled by a simple voice mail.
Thank god the call was voice mail and not me here in my Land’s End Fluffy Robe and Purple Slippers picking up the phone to find BILLY COLLINS on the other end of the phone. My heart would have exploded on the spot. It’s a good thing I was out buying more unsulphered molasses for my vegan blackstrap molasses gingerbread bake-a-thon at the time he called.
No, really, I mean THE Billy Collins, poet of my dreams. Really. He called MY house. And left a message.
Mr Brilliant has been popping at the seams with a surprise he’s been plotting for me and he made a mistake, giving our home number rather than his work number, so BILLY COLLINS CALLED MY HOUSE.I don’t think I should be quite so excited by this, but I am. Breathe. Breathe.
He has a delicious voice. When he speaks, even phone numbers are poetry. Etcetera. Etcetera.
What on earth was he calling about? How does Mr Brilliant do it? And while he’s at it, perhaps a call to Mr Depp would be nice, too? I’m just sayin.’
Smile.
Excuse me. I have to go listen to my voice mail.
