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In which I continue to seek part time employment as the ruler of the world.

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Sunday February 26 2006

Phone call this morning.  First, a long pause of non-communcation, while India connects itself to the UK.  So, almost certainly, this is a junk call.  Eventually, contact is established.

“Hello."

“Hello, a very good morning to you.”

Indian accent.  Female.

“My name is Sandra.”

No it’s not.  End of phone call.

I get a lot of these now, about two a day, and perhaps even rising.  Presumably this is because my number used to be the contact number for the Libertarian Alliance, and once computers get that kind of thing fixed in their databases and they spread it around amongst themselves, there’s no telling them.  A month ago, I would check these calls out just in case they were real, and actually explain why I wasn’t interested.  Then, I just said I wasn’t interested.  Now the phone goes straight down.  It won’t be long before the phone goes down before contact has even been established.

Am I the only one reacting like this?  Assuming not, does this not suggest that the junk phone call bit of the Indian call centre industry might now be entering the territory of diminishing returns?  If they had better numbers to ring than mine, they surely wouldn’t still be ringing me.  Or, the better call centres have stopped ringing me, but new call centres are springing up which have had my useless number passed on to them.

But there are call centres and call centres.  When I call them, looking for answers to questions I actually have, then Sandra is just the girl I want to talk to.

“The Call Centre Years” will be chapter two of your stellar Indian autobiography of circa 2050.  The connection, by phone, has now been established for millions of smart Indians, willing to do anything, say anything, and have anything said to them, however nasty, for money.  That is bound to have consequences, even if me buying mobile phone services from whoever it was this morning will not be one of those consequences.

Good luck Sandra.

Another phone call. Pause while India connects itself to the UK.

“Hello.”

Rather funny accent, male.  Phone goes down.

Have a good life mate.

No doubt India has Charles Dickenses even now penning their sprawling serialised novels and television sagas.  If so, there will be call centres.  Bounderby Phoning.  Gradgrind Communications.  Dothegirls Calls.

Phone.  Pause.

My name is David and I’m.”

Not any more you aren’t David.  Three in one Sunday morning.  If I hadn’t been writing this and hence able to use these interruptions, I might have got quite annoyed.  It’s noon now, here.  What time is it in India?