I never sign up for services on the phone. I simply cannot agree to sell raffle tickets, and monthly direct debit donations to charity are a no-no. So much can go wrong. Like the time when I agreed to swap electricity suppliers over the phone: I ended up being billed by two companies for the same kilowatt hours. I've lost track of how many untouched books of raffle tickets I have lying around the house. I mean, when do I get to sell tickets? And to whom? And then there are direct debit charity donations. This money that comes out of your bank account every month and you forget about it, get overdrawn, arsehole banks charge $40 for being overdrawn so you're even more overdrawn. So there you have it. I'm committed to fiscal integrity. I feel safe….
Until this morning, when I disembarked from the City Loop train at Melbourne Central Station, bought my large weak café latte from the platform kiosk, and made my way up the long escalator. It was ten past nine. I was late. And I saw a group of young whipper-snappers, positioned cleverly between the escalators and the ticket barriers, ambushing hapless commuters, extracting direct debit donations. Two young women were dancing while they waited for the next rush of potential donors, having fun, being happy. I felt irritated and dodged around to the right to escape these marauding riffs. But no! A young man saw my attempted evasion and called out, 'Good morning young lady'. He was young, with a fresh, open face and a hybrid Manchester/Midlands accent. And he called me 'young lady'. He had me. And he pulled me in like a fisherman winding the reel with a stunned mullet on the end of his line. His spiel, his methods, all were as obvious as they come. The sort of thing that pisses me off just before I politely decline and back away. But not with Dave. (Oh yes. We were on first name basis within 2 seconds.) He was charming. Oh so charming. It's alarming how charming he was. I was attentive, and witty, and friendly. He laughed. He told me about his cause and I thought it was a good cause (prevention of youth suicide). Then, without breaking eye-contact, he started taking my details. Now, this is where I normally say, 'but I don't direct debit', but instead I gave my name, which he spelt correctly – clever boy; my address, which he seemed mildly impressed with; my number (of course, he won't be calling me at home); and my birthdate. Now, when I told him the year I was born, his look of surprise was subtle and most effective. Yes, that's right. I was thinking, 'he thinks I look younger than I am!' When I told him I was a musician, one of his colleagues said 'oooo' with a rising inflection indicating how impressed she was. Dave told me I would become famous. I said I didn't want fame, as I looked into his clear blue twenty-something eyes. When I said I had kids he said he couldn't wait to have kids, as he wrote my credit card details down on the direct debit form. And I gave him some sage advice on childrearing as I batted my crows'-feet-framed eyelids at him before signing here, here, here, and…..here.
And so, from August 15th 2007, $20 will magically disapparate from my account and contribute to the coffers at Mission Australia each month for the next two years. Hopefully some desperately tortured young souls will find relief thanks to the work of Mission Australia, and choose not to take their own lives. And also the loved ones of those who do take their own lives. And I'm sure young David is pleased he successfully signed up another ongoing donor, someone who didn't tell him to fuck off. And maybe he hasn't forgotten me just yet. And maybe he did think I looked too young to have been born in 1969. And maybe he thought I looked older than that. Whatever. I'm still floating, reassured of my youthful demeanour, my witty repartee, my ability to flirt with a boy. I somehow don't care so much about my wrinkly eyes today, and I'm sure I look thinner than yesterday. Yes. Yes, I am thinner. I'm even a little sexy in an understated way. And so, I will make the most of this feeling before the air-conditioning sucks me dry, before the day gets long, before two-and-a-half years of broken sleep catch up with me. I am Blanche Dubois. It's wonderful……
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