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Hi,
Time Out is a blog created for my family and friends who may enjoy browsing through bits and pieces that I've written over the years. I'll be updating it from time to time. Hope you enjoy it.
Frances Fahy
.....words .....words .....words
These voices in my head often mock me.
Sometimes they whisper sweet nothings.
Sometimes they become a torrent.
Sometimes they are downright stubborn and won't repeat a gem I've found mind-blowing.
And sometimes they are loudest when I have no way of recording what they're saying.
Cerca in questo Blog
Short Stories
- Burden of Memory
- Getting it Right
- Two Penny-Biscuits, Please.
- Communication Strategies
- The Symphony Parts I and II
- So cold this morning
- Standing Out
- We are family
- Pensioners' Pub Prattle
- Fire Works Wonders
- Birthright Parts I and II
- Thank you, Freddie
- The Candy Woman
Articles
-
Invitation (Horsemeat Scandal)
-
I don’t like complaining but…
-
ABRAKADASTRA
-
Airing my inner self
-
The Reader
-
Environment Awareness Quiz
-
Maynooth University in its infancy
-
Padre Pio
Letters to VIPs
- Letter to Jane Austen
Menu
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| « Two penny-biscuits, please | The Symphony Part II » |
Communication Strategies
The young lady, a splendid Anne Hathaway lookalike in a deep red tight-fitting, turtle-neck sweater and two gentlemen, casually elegant as Italians manage to be, deposited three mobile phones beside their wine glasses as they sat to table. They then lovingly checked for any damage done on impact with the hard surface. Thankfully, bleeps were regular.
Turtje-neck’s Nokia beeped during the starter, to the notes of William Tell. Feigning annoyance, she oohed and clicked off, smiling her apologies.
One of her dining companions, his sunglasses nesting in his hair, remembered a message for someone. A series of well-practised beep-beeps were nonchalantly logged in. The matchbox-sized monitor soon displayed a reply. He nodded approval.
The main course was peppered with exchanges on bits and bites and gigabytes, as the darling little instruments were caressed and coaxed to demonstrate their awesome abilities.
Over dessert, the other chap, self-assured in a beige light-wool suit made his move.
Cinema for two this evening? he pecked.
William Tell beeped again. More sighs as Turtle-neck grabbed her Nokia.
Light-speed eye contact acknowledged the message.
She digited: Maybe!
Specs-in-hair, busy updating his agenda and checking for any messages that might have arrived since he’d last checked, hadn’t noticed the exchange.
His mobile rang, a kind of fire-alarm, and the waiter decided he’d had enough. The restaurant was almost empty but really, those obnoxious bank people!
“Sorry. Company policy. Mobiles on silent during lunch.” He hoped he’d hit the right tone.
“No problem,” muttered Specs-in-hair.
Three indignant thumbs pressed buttons, which put the world on hold. With the lifeline cut, the few fidgety, silent minutes spent sipping espresso seemed endless.
Specs-in-hair took the hefty bill and ended the agony. But it would be worth while. He’d call her later.
The ritual peck-on-cheek and each one went his way checking for messages.
Mr Beige suit received one almost immediately:
OK cinema at 8.
Specs-in-hair wondered why Turtle Neck’s phone was off. Not at all like her.
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