Dear City Boy
I find it difficult to fathom (notwithstanding the fact that human auditory receptors are not equipped with an independent larynx) how any metropolitan juvenile could have advanced biologically to the state of his ''ears telling him that there's no reply''.
One is also in something of a dither pertaining to the bizarre behaviour of this young urban scamp's telephone.
As there are no pointers in your splendid 'tune' to you having used a national or international code or other lengthener to prefix the number so as for it not to be too short, and just to satisfy my own curio-city (boy), I decided to ring it myself just now. Sure enough, upon tapping in a very stunted 5-7-0-5, and after the shortest of pauses, the receiver’s earpiece returned not an unanswered ringing, but that long infuriating tone synonymous with the tapping in of an unobtainable and incorrect sequence.
Furthermore, although your suspicions pertaining to your partner, and a shady ''phone booth lover'' may well be founded, it is perhaps unreasonable to go crazy when there's no-one home. I often phone friends when they have nipped out to Gregg's but by no means take leave of my sanity as a result.
In conclusion, City Boy, an invitation to ''facetime'' on Yahoo Messenger or Skype will not only save one more dime and alleviate the dialling of truncated digits, but, if rejected, sadly confirm the shenanigans of a private number love affair.
Derek Philpott (and son)
Dear Derek and Son
I really think we should put this “talking ears” nonsense to bed, don’t you? The ears relay aural data to my brain, which then processes the information, in effect “telling me there’s no reply”. I truncated the whole business (tranceptors, synapses etc.) for the sake of brevity, simple as that. However, I should say that the celebrated Spanish illusionist, El Pedantico insisted categorically that his ears could indeed talk, in three different languages to boot. Having demonstrated their fluency to a packed house at the Teatro El Musical in Valencia, he further stupefied his audience by putting his head between his knees and whistling up his Barcelona before playing a lively rendition of Una Paloma Blanca on the ear trumpet.
On a more serious note, you question the lack of any prefix or area code for the number 5-7-0-5. This was intentional and I think, necessary. Had I divulged the city or more specifically the district where the woman in question was living, the result would have been a bombardment of nuisance calls not to mention any number of bedsit Travis Bickles with an axe to grind and an AK-47 under the pillow camped on her doorstep.
Although she and I are now estranged, in fact we can no longer meet even as friends, I still keep a copy of the restraining order on the wall of my room at the Happy View Secure Unit in CENSORED to remind me of our somewhat stormy relationship.
My apologies for writing this letter in marker pen, unfortunately no sharps are allowed on the ward.
A City Boy
P.S. Would you mind giving me your address and telephone number? When I’m finally out and about I’d love to get in touch, perhaps even pay you a visit?