Wednesday, November 23, 2005


Here for your pleasure, another tale of Shikoku and its efforts to embarrass me for other people's entertainment when I recount the experience years later.

We all get wrong numbers. It happens. Someone gets the prefix wrong or mixes up the last two numbers while dialing. We've all had them, and we've all made them.

One night—while I was living in Niihama—around 11:30 my cellphone did its little "wow look at me vibrate off the fridge and fall on the floor with a resounding THUNK" dance it would do when someone called. I had taken to leaving it on the fridge at night because it kept falling off the low table in the main room I slept in and waking me up.

Assuming it had to be someone important because they'd called about ten minutes ago, I went over and looked at the number. I didn't recognize it, but it was the same number that had called previously. So I decided it was a good idea to inform whomever was calling they had the wrong number. In English.

Answering the phone with hello, I was then drawn into a conversation with some guy who spoke very little English.

Ok, in my defense, I have no idea why I didn't just hang up after I said "you have the wrong number."

But whatever, he asked if I was American, and I told him he was no I was Canadian. Then he starting asking about the fax. I told him the fax was at the school (as I think I may have mentioned in the practiced Japanese phrase the company taught us that I was a children's EFL teacher.)

Anyway, for about about a minute he tried to insist on the telephone fax, and I tried to tell him that I didn't have a fax machine. Until, clearly frustrated (in more ways than I realized) he clearly said "telephone SEX."

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