sub-text

One of our authors was in town and going out to have lunch with Mr T on Friday. I booked the restaurant and confirmed the lunch by email, and then had his novel sitting on my desk for a week, waiting for him to sign it for me. But then I spent the morning packing White Tigers into a box in another office, followed by a meeting for the Ginger Pig, and when I looked at my watch it was five past one and the author had been and gone.

Damn it. This author lives in France, goodness knows when I would get the chance to see him again.

I wondered - for all of about point five of a second - if I could accidentally wander round to Cigala in Lamb's Conduit Street, and be uncool enough to be just passing with - oh look what I have here, what a coincidence - a copy of the book in my hand, and then sat down wearily at my desk. The first time Mr T took me out to lunch many years ago, in a land of restaurant critic popularity far, far and FT away, it was to Cigala. The last time it was to ASK pizza. I wasn't going anywhere.

Sigh.

I sat at my desk forlornly running through the upcoming weekend: dinner with glamorous friend Sarah in the evening which I would be cooking in my less than glamorous kitchen, then work: Ginger Pig. Ginger Pig. Ginger Pig. And just for a change, on Sunday, Ginger Pig. I supposed I could hang at the office on long enough to see whether Mr T brought him back after lunch and get the book signed then. I decided to text him and ask if this was likely.

I'm not gifted with the art of text. For a start I can't see. My kids always know when the message is from me simply because it's garbled and incomprehensible. I'm slow and clumsy and think it's the worst medium for communication in the world for all but the most cursory of messages when a telephone call would be too intrusive. People who would be embarrassed to call you and say they were canceling an appointment at the last minute think nothing of sending you a text. Friends have been dumped by text. It's the medium of the hurried, cowardly and rude.

Recently a friend sent a message asking when I was free to meet her. (Well I use the term friend loosely. Since I lost a husband she seems to be afraid divorce it's catching and hasn't been in touch except by the scintillatingly non-emotive and very occasional text to ask me how I am. Really. How do you *ing think I am? And how much do you really care if all you can do is text me twice in five months? Not that I'm bitter or anything...) After I had found my glasses, dropped the phone, pressed several wrong buttons and sent a blank message back, I read that she wanted me to arrange a meeting and offer her alternative dates. By text? Dear God, I'd rather sort out the Palestinians and the Israelis. By the time I had tapped that lot out I would be 106. So, I asked her to call me instead. She didn't. She had been in touch - her duty was done without once hearing my voice.

So frankly, I try to avoid texting whenever possible. This is particularly important to remember when drunk. However, in the middle of the day at the office, inebriation (for me at least) wasn't a problem, so I took a deep breath and picked up the phone, squinted, and tapped out the letters very, very slowly and painstakingly.

Are you bringing author

back to office. He so foot (damn that predictive text)

forget to get my book

signed, x (we're very affectionate at Pedantic Press)

I scrolled down and picked out T from my address book, and pressed send, then waited for around ten minutes to see if he would answer .

He didn't.

So, I left.

Twenty minutes later I was slumped sadly at the top of the No 7 bus when the phone chirruped.

Oh! Despite my reluctance to send texts I do like getting them providing they are not from Orange telling me that I can get a two for one cinema ticket on Wednesdays (rub it in, why don't you - where do I find the second person Orange?) or that I'm eligible for 'lucky numbers' so I can call all those friends I don't have at a lower rate. I live in perpetual hope that it's someone I really want to hear from. Even the Italian, now firmly in the past tense, occasionally sends me a message to see if we can meet. (So far we can't.) I reached for the phone. It was from Mr T and said:

? ? ? T x

What on earth did he mean by all the question marks - what possible ambiguity could there be in the message I sent him?

And then, before I could answer, the phone sang again and as I read the second message, which I will not reproduce here I was flooded (bright red) by a horrible realisation. I know two Mr Ts, and only one of them is in the contacts on my phone.

And it isn't the one I work for.

Had the mix up been the other way round I would have been very much more embarrassed, and only one of the reasons why I should only be allowed to operate a small hand-held devise even when sober. Another reason would be how the second Mr T managed to get into my address book in the first place.

But that story is for another day.