Doesn't it make you mad when ...

... the phone rings.  I don't mean when I'm near the phone but other times such as in the middle of enjoying dinner, have to get up, finish chewing a delicious morsel, answer the phone with a little annoyance. Despite an explanation to the caller, often friend or family, that I was enjoying my meal that person insists on trying to drag out a conversation which could easily have waited until a little later.  Result?  Cold dinner that now looks distinctively unappealing.  Reheat in the microwave and all crisp things have turned soft and soggy, reheat in the oven and any sauce or gravy will look like my granny's skin after sunbathing for eight hours.  In all probability it will taste remarkably similar too.

The phone rings again at a different time.  Rush down from our top bedroom via one ladder and a flight of stairs, trip over a wandering cat in the the kitchen, thereby kicking the mat on which the cat's dishes are placed, spilling crunchy cat  biscuits, milk and water all across the kitchen floor.  Rush into sitting room, panic because the TV remote has disappeared so that the sound cannot be muted quickly, pick up the handset just to hear the dialing tone because the caller has decided that I am not home.

On another occasion I was happily cooking what would hopefully be a delicious ham and cheese omelette for lunch when the phone demanded my attention.  In my haste to answer the thing I did not take the omelette pan from the heat on the stove.  The call was from a friend whom I had not spoken to for a while, naturally we became somewhat engrossed in catching up with things.  Slowly I became aware of of a smell of something becoming hotter than it it should be accompanied by delicate little clouds of bleu smoke coming from the kitchen next door.  A hasty goodbye along with a promise to call back later that was made.  The kitchen was full of acrid smoke and the smell of burnt egg and pan as wellas something looking a little like a piece of immolated rubber.  Suddenly I was not entertaining very charitable thoughts about my friend with whom I had just been chatting.

This morning my wife had gone out shopping so I was home alone.  Now, dear reader, I shall phrase this as delicately as I can - there was I safely ensconced upon the bathroom throne when, guess what?  The blasted phone rang.  As I was expecting a call that I did not want to miss I leapt to my feet, hoisted trousers to knee level thus facilitating some sort of movement, painfully stubbing a big toe on the bathroom door in my hurry to reach the phone.  Negotiating the kitchen successfully as there were no meandering cats about, did not fall down the steps into the sitting room and grabbed the phone.  No, it was not the anticipated call but some French call centre denizen asking would I like to purchase - well, I don't really know what was being proffered because the prepared speech was interrupted with a peremptory impolite invitation to go away. 

Yes we do have call preference here in rural France which theoretically bars most telesales pests.  Great idea except that I have registered at six times in recent years so far with the preference system to absolutely no avail whatsoever.  Does my blood pressure rise sharply on such occasions as it certainly would have done when living in England?  No, not at all because after nearly eight years living with the French system and attitudes I am slowly morphing into a French replica and just mutter 'Merde!' accompanied by a Gallic shrug.