Neil: what the hell could that be
haven't you been reading my blog?
12:57 PM it's all there in fucking black and white
friday
me: yeah... i've been reading.. sorry it's the 19th..
I wanted to see if you'd lie to me..
1:00 PM Been thinking about the over-specific greeting card business...
it would be really nice if you could get 'sorry to hear that your Cat/Dog/Horse is dead...
Neil: that's a good idea
me: People love animals and you can't get animal bereavement cards.. it's just plain wrong
1:01 PM Neil: you're so right!
what url for this website?
overspecificcards.com
me: Don't know what you'd do about a picture on the front.. a load of really sad looking puppies/kittens/horses
1:02 PM yeah! no-one has it! hooray!
sorry to hear you failed your driving test for the 5th time!
Neil: lol
the url's not bad
quite memorable
shame about the double cc
1:05 PM me: yeah... maybe need a '-' between specific and cards... maybe just overspecific.com .. - why just stick to cards!!
Neil: that's surely not available
me: oh yeah??
1:06 PM Neil: buy it!
buy it if it is!
it's a great url
me: I think maybe a should...
1:07 PM Neil: a should?
what's a should?
me: I should.. sorry...
Neil: is it really available?
that's a really good url
even as a personal url - it's a goodun
me: www.overspecific.com
1:08 PM Neil: you're right -
see here - http://easily.co.uk
is it a word?
:)
1:09 PM me: yeah.. If the card business doesn't take off, i'll just have my blog there... better than crappy www.bydaybynight.co.uk... sounds like an awful daytime ITV soad..
soap.. not soad..
Neil: it's terrible isn't it
it's not actually a word
1:10 PM not many references to it either
http://www.google.co.uk/search?hl=en&q=overspecific&meta=
but it's totally apparent what it means
1:11 PM me: yeah... even if it's just a piss-take overspecific site, it would be a lot of fun coming up with different categories..
Neil: it would
it's a really nice idea. £25 for two years! go for it!
I really need a wee
1:12 PM seeya!
me: 'sorry to hear you need a colostomy bag'...
1:13 PM Neil: excellent
all sorts of medical things
I'm now weeing in my seat
me: 'sorry to hear your good news wasn't so good after all'
Neil: haha
lol
me: I really like that one!
Neil: your xxxx is xxxxxxxx (too offensive to print)
1:14 PM just starkly like that
maybe that wouldn't get so many purchases
me: that's horrible! (but i'm still laughing)
Sorry to hear about the repossession...
1:15 PM lots of sorry cards.. need more congratulation cards
Neil: Congratulations on your new house.....
*turn to the message inside*
In Sydenam Hill
wouldn't that be freakyt
all properly printed
me: that would be brilliant!
1:16 PM Neil: you could print these for peanuts
just need a very good printer - high initial outlay, but you could do it from home
1:17 PM obviously give people the opportunity to make their own overspecific cards
me: yeah.. people would want to personalise them,.. we could just give a few as examples...
Neil: yep

Tom from David Croneberg's Wife left this over-specific voice mail for me the other night... I'm sure he'll be proud to know that I have immortalised his profound and sincere* words by publishing it on here.

*I mean it - I wish i'd get more voice mail like this even if it did cost me at least £2 pound to listen to it

“You belong in Slag heaven”

“I’m telling you, if I weren’t wearing my jeans, I’d have smashed her face in”

These are two small snippets of phone conversations I overheard on the Silverlink in the last week. The first snippet was said by a man who I couldn’t work out if he was talking to an ex-girlfriend who he wasn’t on the best terms with or whether he was jokingly commenting to a good friend about his wayward misdemeanours with very accommodating women. I must also admit to being slightly amused that someone can repress their anger and possible violent intentions towards someone depending on their choice of fashion that day but then maybe there is something more logical and intelligent hiding behind this. For all I knew the lady who admirably kept her composure may have been a kick boxer and wearing tight jeans (that seem to be so unbelievably popular these days, thanks Razorlight) would only have hampered her fighting skills and could even lead to a hernia (surely one major deterrent for joining in the tight jean craze, but then I, Mr Baggy jeans can hardly talk).

Anyway, hearing these two excerpts from one way phone conversations got me thinking back to a time when I was in Homerton Hospital waiting room last summer and I heard a very over-specific phone conversation. I had written down most of what had happened shortly after the incident as I had thought it would make a good blog but some time passed, I forgot about it and now here I am trying to resurrect it for my new blog which is currently crying out for some content before I let the masses know of it’s existence.

I’d just arrived for an appointment and I had been handed a small vial by a very tired and bored looking nurse at the reception desk. She looked like she’d been working an impossibly long time and I was sure (in my typically cynical way) that the majority of that time was spent having to deal with lots of people with minor ailments who probably had lots of opinions to share on the state of the NHS due to the unbelievably long time they had been made to wait to have a doctor confirm that they had an in-growing toe-nail and that they were going to live after all. I’ve always felt a lot of empathy for people trying to do their jobs and having to deal with the public when they’ve looked like it’s the last thing they really want to be doing that day especially if that job entailed them to hear the same mundane questions being asked and demands being made for something that you have no control over. I like to give them the benefit of the doubt that they are not terminally miserable people and they were having , like all of us have had, a bad day.

The Nurse told me that I was to fill the vial with urine when the moment took hold of me and then a doctor would see me shortly after. I didn’t feel exactly like the moment would take me soon so I purchased a bottle of water and a carton of orange juice from the vending machine, took a seat and proceeded to drink my moment-inducing medicine. After I had consumed my drinks, I took out a book from my bag to read until the moment finally took me to a very natural conclusion.

There were about 10 rows of seats , 6 in each row, all facing the reception desk where the nurse sat as low as possible in her seat so as not to attract attention even though her desk resembled a stage or stall at the front of a small village hall. A stand-up routine, a song and dance or the judging of a prize turnip was very unlikely on this stage and the only routine she could muster was the odd under-enthusiastic shout of a ticket number or a surname. The expression she wore on her face clearly said "I know how long you've been waiting here, I entered your details into our database when you arrived, don't you remember?". I sat down in the middle of the penultimate row, I hadn’t really taken notice of anyone else who was in the waiting area and I certainly hadn’t noticed anyone on their mobile phone having a very loud conversation but that was all about to change.

Without warning I heard a loud over-pronounced sigh from the row behind me and then a few phone-like tones as the same person started tapping away on their mobile.

“Hello mate, it’s me. You’ll never guess where I am.” said the man with a broad and loud Essex accent

“Homerton Hospital. Jim the stupid prick came off his bike, His hand is a right mess. He’s been in for ages. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on”

A short silence elapsed, no longer than 2 seconds. Enough time for the person on the other end of the line to probably say “Oh no!”

The loud Essex man continued.

“Anyway, I’m going to need your help with some spelling because I might need your help writing a letter. I’ve just sent a text to that ITV talk show about my daughter and they’ve sent one back saying that they are very interested in my story and they would be in contact with me very soon”

Another 2 second silence.

“anyway, I need you to write down what I’ve got to say and make sure you get the facts right and the spelling of things. I’m not even sure if I spelt Chrissie right in the text message, or if I spelt New Maldon right. I can’t remember Chrissie’s last name either, but Chrissie is short for Christine, right”

At least 5 seconds elapses.

“yeah, but it’s probably Christine, though. Anyway, I want to get this letter written as soon as possible because they could contact me very soon. They could contact me tomorrow and if I can’t give them all the proper details and I can’t spell it right, then I’m going to look like a dickhead…. Still, I’m going to get on TV! How mad is that???”

A longer time elapses in which I’m hoping the other voice on the line is subtly telling our loud excited friend not to get his hopes up as it is unlikely to happen next week.

The Man interjects, “yeah, but I’ve got a really good chance of actually getting on. I mean, how many people get a text message from ITV?”

I furrow my brow and try to concentrate on my book but it’s so hard to concentrate on reading and ignore the conversation as the guy is sitting less than a metre behind me. I know how I‘d react if I got a text message from ITV but now is not the time for me to share my opinions on the channel and it’s lack of intelligent programmes.

The conversation continues for a few more minutes about what the letter will include and I managed to gather from this that the Man sitting behind me had very recently been released from a long stretch in prison. He had a girlfriend called Chrissie or Christine before he got sent down and he knows that she had a baby and he believes that the child could well be his. Unfortunately he didn’t know her surname, what his daughters first name was or where they were living now. In an act of desperation and possible inspiration, the man had contacted an ITV topical morning chat show that specialises in dealing with these public-interest stories in the hope that they may help reunite him with his lost ex-girlfriend and perhaps long lost daughter. The phone conversation ended with the Man making the other person on the other end of the line promise that they were going to get this letter finished tonight and that he would call round to collect it soon after.

The waiting room falls silent for a few seconds before another long sigh passes through me like a cloud of radiation. Some more phone-like tones can be heard and I know that I’m not going to get past the first page until at least the end of the next phone conversation.

“Hello, it’s me. You’ll never guess where I am”

“Homerton Hospital. Jim the stupid prick came off his bike, His hand's a right mess. He’s been in for ages. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on”

“anyway, I haven’t got long because there might be some news soon. How do you spell Maldon?”

2 second gap

“MALDON. As In Nu MALDUN”

“MALDON, you prick. NEW MALDON, listen to me!”

I really want to help out here but an inner voice tells me not to interject.

The phone conversation continues with the Man confirming his good news that he may well be on TV soon but now he was slightly worried because of his poor spelling of New Maldon whether the details he had given them was enough to get his story into the public eye. The phone conversations ends quite abruptly when Jim appears (the loud shout of ‘JIM‘ gave his identity away). I’m pretty sure everyone in the waiting room had a good look at Jim as he walked through. We were all probably building images in our head, working out who Jim’s angry sounding friend was and what he looked like. I didn’t do my normal trick of nonchalantly looking back as if expecting to see something on the wall behind the man on the phone so I could satisfy my curiosity. It was also obvious by the atmosphere in the room that everyone was too intimidated to look round and find out what this man looked like. His angry, loud voiced had confirmed that the man was somehow allowed to be as loud as he liked and no-one was going to ask him to keep the noise down. My mind, unable to concentrate on the opening of a new Murakami novel, had imagined a giant of a man. He was sitting at the back of the room, he knew where everyone was and what we looked like, we had no idea what he looked like but we did know his brief life story and it’s amazing how that information can create a very detailed mental picture in your head of a very scary looking man. Not that this gave me the upper hand in anything.

Jim, a fairly skinny looking man, pretty much the opposite of what I imagined our other friend to look like, didn’t seem to know what was going on either, by the sounds of things. He showed the man his injured arm and a gave him a quick run down of the treatment he had received so far although now he'd didn't quite know what stop was next on the road to recovery. I must admit, I didn't think it looked too bad from where I was sitting. Suddenly a doctor hurried through and asked Jim to return to his cubicle and then ushered him back through. He’d obviously gone absent without permission of the medical staff so as to keep his friend informed that he too had no idea what was really going on.

At least a minute of golden silence passed and I was nearly halfway through the first page. I had now been pretending to read the first page for about 10 minutes. I felt sure that he’d noticed that I hadn’t turned the page once so I turned the page knowing full well now that I would be having to re-start the book another time and that this fake reading and turning of pages that I hadn’t digested would continue so as not to attract unwanted attention.

The man let out another loud sigh, followed by a even louder tut and then a frustrated comment of “fuckin' 'ell” reverberated around the waiting room.

The inevitable phone-like tones were heard.

“Hello, it’s me. You’ll never guess where I am” - the Man’s voice was somewhat softer this time. I assumed he that he may have been talking to a loved one or at least a woman.

“Homerton Hospital. Jim the stupid prick came off his bike, His hand is a right mess. He’s been in for ages. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on”

“anyway, I haven’t got long, I just wanted to tell you that I’ve taken your advice and I contacted ITV and they told me that they are very interested in my story, so that’s great news isn’t it? “

3 seconds elapses

“So I’m gonna be on TV, that’s not bad for someone like me is it? Anyway, when I do get on, I wanted to know whether you wanted to come on with me like? You know, for support .”

A short time elapses where again I hope the voice on the other end of the phone is telling the man not to get his hopes up to much and is also using this time to come up with a decent enough excuse so as not to answer yes.

“I know, I know it’s not definite but I’m just saying that if I do get on TV, do you want to come? It’ll be great! You’ll be on TV, you know!”

I asked myself the question that probably the majority of the people in the waiting room were now asking themselves. Would I be flattered or impressed if someone ask me to go on one of those mid-morning ITV chat shows with them?
My brow was so deeply furrowed by now that I could have planted seeds in my forehead. At last, I felt the moment finally beginning to take me where I wanted to go. I closed my book I was pretending to read, stood up and walked without looking back to the toilet by the side of the reception desk knowing full well that everyone also knew that I wouldn’t just be peeing into the toilet bowl.

I finished with my moment and got ready to leave the toilet. I was aware now that I was going to be walking back to my seat and I would get my first glimpse of the man sitting behind me who’d kept me entertained for the past 15 minutes. I wasn’t sure whether I could use this moment to change seats and sit forward but I decided to return to my original seat, sneak a quick look at the man to satisfy my curiosity and then continue with pretending to read my book.

I walked out of the toilet and proceeded back towards my seat. Now was my chance to coolly look up and imprint his appearance into my mind forever. My chance was literally a split second. I took one look and immediately got eye contact with two steely grey eyes. His hair was short and curly and he appeared to have the tattoos that I’d correctly imagined in my minds eye. He also appeared to be gritting his teeth in a very aggressive manner which caused me to avert my eyes in an ever so quick fashion. I now felt uneasy about taking my original seat but there was no way I couldn’t sit back their now, I’d played my hand.

I uncomfortably sat down and persevered in trying to read at least one page of my book. Even though it was quiet for a few minutes, the atmosphere in the waiting room (that may have only existed in my mind but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one who felt uneasy) made it impossible for me to read my book but I’d pretended to read up to page 9 by now. I just hoped that no-one surprised me by unpredictably asking me questions about the plot or the characters. If this unlikely situation occurred I knew that I’d have to make something up because I had no idea what I was reading.

More sighs, tuts and some Fucking Hell’s passed and finally I heard my name said without any effort or (com)passion by the nurse and before you could say ‘Urine sample’ I’d made my way through the swinging double doors towards a consultation room.

As I walked through the doors and disappeared down the corridor, I heard those immortal opening few sentences of a man I once met on his mobile phone.

“Hello, it’s me. You’ll never guess where I am”

I could now conclude this rather long blog by voicing my opinions on these awful daytime chat shows that rely on people airing all their private matters to the public and wrongly convince people that discussing their problems on live TV with strangers is surely the best way to start sorting their life out. Or I could even discuss the problems of dealing with difficult people in Hospital Waiting rooms or the ongoing problem of violent conduct towards overworked, underpaid and under-appreciated NHS staff. But I won’t.