The phone call

I have always hated high-pitched tones, especially those that phones make. They remind me of nagging wives and grandmothers, who will not stop yelling at you until you get around performing menial tasks and assuaging them with a little talk.

I trudge to the phone, the tea left cold and untouched next to the typewriter. The phone, for some inexplicable reason is near the bedroom. An annoyance that has often woken me out of many sweet dreams of erotic passion and interrupted many of my creative musings. The wife demands it and I accede without question because no one makes better tea than her, and I really need my daily doses of tea. Give and take. It is the secret of our long and happy married life.

I pick up the phone and listen to an automated voice talk telling me that I am in a queue and I should stay on hold till their representative gets around talking to me. I sit down on the beautiful mahogany chair that we have placed by the phone for those long conversation we hope to someday have with our really close friends and relatives. I listen to the classical music, and bask in the familiarity of the tune.This used to be my favourite tune for years.

I would unwrap the vinyl,  start the gramophone and dissolve in the ethereal melody that accompanied Beethoven's symphonies and his Crescendo in Blue. I would write to the music, the tempo of the music dictating the emotions in my writings. The tap of the typewriter interspersing the Funeral March, words and music creating an orgy of creative expression.

Classical music. It was always my muse. How could I forget those days? Darn this electronic age, of consumerism and change. The music on the telephone had started looping, so I cut the phone and trudge back to unwrap some old vinyls.

The End

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