It's six o'clock precisely and the telephone's just started to ring. Should I answer it? It might be the polite thing to do. Dickie said I should make myself at home, and said it in the nicest way: "The key's the key of the whole flat, remember, not just the front door." Well, I've taken him at his word. I'm lying on the sofa reading his letters and I've made myself a socking great vodka tonic. This afternoon was a shambles. I've never heard such a set of meaningless presentations in my life. I feel more exhausted than if I'd delivered one myself. I'm going to cut the dinner and give myself a night on the town.

   I ought to answer the phone, take a message. It might be something important. But it can't be for me because no one knows I'm here. Except Dickie, and he's expecting me to be at the conference till late tonight. So it's for him, and he won't be back till tomorrow. If I answer it I shall have to explain all that, and say who I am. Boring, boring.

   I thought all yuppies had answering machines these days. You could leave it on even when you were at home, so that you could decide whether to talk to the person or not. Perhaps it's become smart not to have one.

   It's very persistent. You'd have thought it would have rung off by now, because clearly no one's answering it. They can't know Dickie very well. It's a tiny flat. You can practically see the phone from any part of it. You could make a dive for it if you were very eager, if you were actually waiting for a call, and catch it on the first ring like the father of a kidnap victim. If they're bothering to let it ring like this they must imagine the place is enormous, with a butler walking gravely across miles and miles of parquet. How ridiculous.

   They must realize that no one's here. What would be the point of letting it ring so long? I mean, it's been ringing now for an absurdly long time. I should have been counting. I'll start counting now and call it ten rings so far. Eleven. Twelve.

   Of course, it's quite wrong to say that they must realize that no one's here. After all, I'm here. But if they did know that I was here they'd surely expect me to have answered it by now. Fifteen. And it's far too late to do so. What would I say? How could I explain why I hadn't answered it earlier? So if they do suspect that I'm here, and there's no real reason why I haven't answered it (and there isn't) why are they letting it ring? Nineteen. Twenty.

   And of course it wouldn't be me they'd think of lying here and not answering it. It would be Dickie.

   So perhaps there is some point to it after all. It could be a code, a cunning way of getting relatively complicated information via British Telecom at no charge. Twenty-five. Suppose it was this Sue, for example, who's sent Dickie this really rather louche postcard with the naked bottoms on it. She could arrange to ring at six o'clock every day and he would know it was her and no one else. He'd let the phone ring for as long as she wanted, and the number of rings would correspond to a message. The more rings, the more exciting the message. Twenty-nine, thirty. It's stopped. It stopped at thirty.

   Thirty possible messages! The mind boggles. The first ones could be quite routine and practical. One to seven rings: "Jim has to be away Monday night (Tuesday night, Wednesday night, etc.)." Eight to fourteen rings: "Ditto, but I'll come to you." Fifteen rings: "Cancel previous plans. I'll be in touch." Sixteen rings: "Come immediately!" What would thirty rings be? "I'm just about to take a long soapy bath with that rubber cast you let me make of you and I'm really going to get it right this time."

   Dickie, Dickie, you sly dog. I can't bear it. I'll have to pour myself another vodka.

John Fuller: Telephone