So I’m lying face-down in bed yesterday, coughing and feeling sorry for myself when the phone rings.
“Hi Alana, it’s Kim.”
I scrabbled around in my flu-addled brain trying to work out who Kim was – didn’t recognise the voice AT ALL – and started stalling.
“Sorry, I have the flu, feeling a bit fuggy …”
“Oh … well, maybe now isn’t the best time to talk,” said Kim. “But I just want you to know that I’m there for you. You can call me any time. You can talk to me about anything. I just want you to know that.”
And I’m like, riiiiiighhhht … whoever the fark you are, that’s nice …
“So, if the stuff people are saying about you is true,” she continues.
Huh? Sorry? What?
“And you are using Ice,” Kim continued.
“Er, I think you have the wrong number,” I interjected.
“What?” She sounded a bit suspicious – I’m presuming drug-farked people and flu-addled suburban mums sound quite similar on the phone. “It’s Alana, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But I’m not using Ice, so you must have the wrong Alana.”
“Is this Alana XXXXX,” she queries.
“No, Alana HOUSE.”
“Oh. OK. Er, well I’m just going to end this conversation right now, sorry …”
If my brain had been working a bit better I might have checked how Kim got my number when she decided to make her mercy call to Alana XXXXX.
So, just in case there’s someone who thinks it’s ME that’s addicted to Ice and has been busily passing my number around to anyone keen to stage an intervention … please stop.
Can we just put that rumour to bed with my flu?
The only things I’m addicted to are Diet Coke and shopping.