London Calling

221 2704 - this was my telephone number growing up.  No area code, well not unless you were calling from outside London when you were required to dial 01 in advance.  I remember the ad campaign's strapline was "don't forget the 1".   That was bad enough but then they introduced  the 07/08 area codes and with it came a certain smugness if you happen to fall within the 07 catchment area since this was considered central London whereas 08 was for the provincial backwaters of zone 3 and beyond (for the long suffering Canuck readers of this drivel, I advise you look at the London Underground map for the meaning of zone 3).

And if all that malarkey wasn't enough to twist your melon, the authorities decided to mount a scaremongering campaign warning Londoners that unless more numbers were added to landlines, well, we'd simply run out of lines.  And like the playground bully that was British Telecom at the time - in glorious monopoly, in came the 0207 and 0208 codes.  Of course since then they've also added the 0203 to this mish mash of numbers (the latter popular with businesses in central London).  Of course by then no-one really had landlines anymore.  Oh the irony. 

You're probably thinking what this is all about?  Frankly, I'm not sure.  I just happen to have the day off and am currently doing what I enjoy most in life - daydream - and I found myself thinking about my old telephone number and about 10 others that I still know off by heart, though I haven't dialled them in 19 years.  And then I got to thinking about how I don't know anyone's number off by heart any more and whether this is a reflection of the state of society or whether it's just a sign of progress but most of all I wondered what would happen if I dialled that number, my old number today.  Would my mum pick up?  Wouldn't that be lovely.  Yes, I'd like to think my mum would pick up and say "Ay mi chicha!" (rough translation - Oh my little sausage).  Of course I know it would never happen - she died in 1993 - but for today, let me have this one concession, let me have this one indulgence.

I have a few hours to kill before I indulge my other passion - picking The Lish up from school and all I really want to do is to check out the biography section of the local library.  I guess that is what working fulltime does (to me at least) reminds me of life's simple pleasures.  Is that boring? 

Ok so maybe it is.  But this isn't.  On my other day off I went to the crown court in Snaresbrook (Zone 4 - definitely not an 0207 area code) where one of my Wum (working mum) chums works as a barrister.  She's currently  prosecuting an attempted murder trial...how's that for boring?  I can tell you I've NEVER been so overwhelmed by the venerability (this is a word - I checked.  It's a noun.  So shut up) of it all and to see my friend donning a barristers wig, was almost too much. I actually went to the toilet so I could squeal with excitement.  Then the judge spoke.  I would have admitted guilt there and then, except I've done nothing wrong - but that is the effect this austere man's voice had on me.  I was less than 2 metres from a person who held the future of the defendant's life in his hands and I was less than a metre from the witness box. 

I noticed the defendant looking over at the public gallery where I was sitting and my blood froze.  What if he thinks I'm there to gloat?  What if his family and friends decide to teach me a lesson later?  I tried to look all studious - my cover would be that I was merely a lowly law student - nothing more.  Yes, that would be my ruse, just as soon as I've managed to pick my chin up off the floor.  Formidable.  No other way to describe this or my barrister friend.  

But let's not get carried away here this is still a girl who couldn't handle her drink the other night.  In that department, I rule. 

And that's why she's the barrister and I'm not.