Monday 4 April 2011

3.14159...THAT'S ALL I GOT

313-995-5095, that’s the phone number for Pizza House in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Yes. I still remember the number. And the fact that I can remember the phone  number of the place I used to order chapatis from (if you don’t know what they are, oh did you miss something…well, about six inches on the hips actually) is the kind of thing that terrifies me and gives me hope all at once. I mean, I can barely remember my son’s middle name – it’s either Alexander…or Ayrton, we’re Formula One fanatics, have to check the passport – and yet, I can remember a phone number of a pizza place I used to call in college. Granted, I dialed this place far too often, and what it says about my appetite is slightly frightening. In fact, I blame this establishment – yes Pizza House, I am calling you out – for my freshman 15. Okay 20, but in all black I could pull off looking downright cherubic. That’s such a sweet euphemism for round as a donut isn’t it? Sweet and very misleading.

I also remember my best friend’s phone number from when we were fourteen (don’t worry MF I shall not give it out). Don’t you miss phone numbers? I mean actually remembering phone numbers. Now I barely know my own phone number let alone anyone else’s. And of course every now and then I have that sobering moment when I realize that in an emergency, if I lost my phone and I was running through the rain on a dark night towards a phone box being chased by an axe wielding maniac (it could happen), I wouldn’t be able to call anyone as I don’t have their numbers memorized. Okay fine, I could call 911 (or 999 if I was being chased in England), but you get my point. 

Gone are the days when we needed our memories. Now we have blackberries, iphones, computers, and so on, to do all our remembering for us. We don’t even have to remember birthdays thanks to Facebook. And people, when you get 300 people wishing you well on your birthday on FB don’t get too excited, if it wasn’t for that reminder in the top right hand corner (unless they’ve changed it, again) they wouldn’t know your birthday if it landed on them from space. I figure, as my son grows up, the only way to combat this problem is to walk around the house reciting Pi – at least then he stands the chance of memorizing a number longer than his ATM code.

Much more importantly, I wonder if a chapati would fit into a fed ex box?
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