Smoke Without Fire

Last week I got dumped. By text. Three times. By the same person. Which is curious when you consider that a) I haven’t seen her for at least a year, and b) we never even went out because c) she’s my cousin. Turns out the texts weren’t meant for me. Being at the top of most folks’ phonebooks leaves one with, let us say, a ‘lively’ inbox.

Taryn, for example, regularly calls me at silly o’clock in the morning asking for a cab – on cash please. Sadly nobody else has taken to abbreviating Addison to Addie yet, otherwise I might be on to a killer scam. Except, obviously, that I don’t drive.

I get it all: breakdowns, break-ups and make-ups (try looking your colleague in the eye after an accidental button-push has left you with an eight minute voicemail of their coital pantings as heard from their trouser pocket). But mostly it’s just drunken booty texts at 2am. Which is essentially like having a delivery embarrassment service.

Lucky that I’m not organizing the new Memory Cloud installation then. Who could ever live down six foot tall, glowing letters hovering above Trafalgar Square bearing the immortal epithet, “yr ass looked so good 2nite. wot u doing l8r sexy. Brad x”?

Memory Cloud : Trafalgar Square • Oct 8-10

by AC