I knew I wanted to marry my husband when I overheard him on the phone to a cold caller. Having recently reached a new stage in maturity, I’d rearranged the list of qualities I was looking for in a life partner, placing kindness above wearing good trainers.
He didn’t know I was listening, but asked the person’s name, then, addressing them by it, told them that he wasn’t in the market for whatever they were flogging, warmly wished them better luck with the next call, and hoped they would have a great day. He was undoubtedly a brief, friendly reprieve in an otherwise universally thankless task, albeit with no commission. I realised you can tell everything you need to know about who somebody really is from the way they treat cold callers, and have lived by that rule ever since.
