RACHEL'S COLUMNS

These articles appeared in Rachel's column every Friday in the A3 section of The Age

A few hang ups? Here's your answer
16th April 2004

I’ll let you into a secret, I figure we’ve known each other for long enough now – I’m writing this in my jarmies.  No, I’m not stretched out on a flat stomach with my long legs bent at the knees provocatively swinging above my tight buttocks like Sarah Jessica Parker, tapping away on my laptop.  For starters, I’ve got comedian’s legs; they’re short and to the point, attached to my body and announcing the joke like two exclamation marks.  Then there’s the fact that I prefer the lumpy feel of flannel to the rich texture of French silk; I think flannel is better suited to chapped feet, don’t you?

Let me be very clear about this, I look and feel like a pair of undies tossed aside and left for days on the bathroom tiles – hardboiled and lonely.  Why?  Because only a few hours ago I found myself splayed on my bedroom floor and realised all too quickly that I’d fallen out of my bed.  Now with heart in mouth, as I wipe the perspiration from my forehead, I want to share the information I diligently researched in the gloomy hours after my fall.  IT’S VERY DANGEROUS BEING WOKEN UP BY THE TELEPHONE.

Last year in America, 12,000 people fell out of their beds and suffered severe injuries mainly due to alarm clocks and the phone ringing – and, being very drunk.  One very lucky guy fell out of a top bunk, rolled through a second floor window, landed on the street and survived.  Regrettably, he was then mugged and run over by a car.  There’s nothing more nauseating than being woken up before your body is ready to meet the challenge of being alive.  I don’t care how it’s done – alarm clock, radio, phone ringing or the cocktail voice and gentle touch of your true-love.  It gives me the same feeling as when some hairy-knuckled sea-creature posing as a caring person says, “I’m sorry to advise that your insurance has lapsed.”

Way back in the Neolithic era when an early reminder call meant that you answered the phone and a human voice told you what the time was and to have a good morning, it was almost bearable.  I always imagined that whoever did this sort of job had to be a sadist who sat at their desk munching on a stale doughnut and playing tongue rugby with a can of flat warm Fanta just before they made their call.  Rage, the breakfast of champions!  The recorded time message with the cute-brunette beep every ten seconds makes me hear strange voices that tell me to do things I wouldn’t normally do “at the third stroke it will be eight blah blah blah… head down… walk slowly, go back to bed but first pick up the scissors and cut the phone chord.”

I don’t have a phone next to my bed, so I’m forced to sit up, remove my earplugs (suddenly the world is incredibly loud) thrust my forehead forward until my legs follow and lead me into another room.  My hand, which still not logged onto the main server, lifts up the receiver – slams it down again and I go straight back to bed or straight into the shower.  Twice now I’ve made it to the shower, but forgotten to remove my pyjamas.  Wet flannel doesn’t feel comfy, not when it’s lathered up with liquid soap and a sea-sponge.

In one of those coincidences that are really spooky I’ve just tried to make myself a cup of coffee, but when I opened the fridge to get the milk – there was the phone sitting on top of a plate of half-gnawed chicken drumsticks.  My head is sizzling with possible explanations but only the shadowy memory of the phone ringing remains.

Maybe there’s an opportunity here for a new wake-up service?  A tall stranger (gender of your choice), who’s been interviewed and briefed as to your special requirements comes to your home at the prescribed time with fresh croissants and the newspaper.  After putting the coffee on, he/she runs into the bedroom, pulls the doona off you and in a voice that can be heard ten blocks away they bellow, “Without you I’m nothing!”  Works for me.