Every breath I take, and every move I make, every bond I break, every step I take, they keep phoning me. This is a chain of London estate agents, well known to be – and doubtless proud of the accolade – the pushiest of a pushy breed. I bought a flat through them more than 10 years ago and I’ve had no peace since. It seems they think I might want to sell or rent it. I’ve told them I don’t. I’ve even told them I don’t own it any more. But it does no good. They always come back for another try. Perhaps they just want to keep in touch. Sweet, really.
About once a month, a London number I don’t recognise flashes up. It’s them. Clever, really, that they don’t withhold the number. Looks as though it might – might – be a call that needs answering. But now that I’m wise to their ways, I reject the call. You would hope they would take the hint and, like spurned lovers with too much pride to persevere, give up. Oh no. So, diligently, ruthlessly, unceremoniously, I block the number. But they have a workaround so simple that it is almost sophisticated – a month later, they call from another number. And so it goes on.
