"Good afternoon, Haddock & Haddock, Jolene speaking, how may I help you?"
"Hello, this is Silas Middlemarch of The Irish Times. Could I speak to Mr Haddock, please?"
"Which Mr Haddock?"
"I don't know. I got a message that he rang. His first name begins with O. I'm returning his call."
"What is it in connection with, please?"
"I don't know - I told you, he was looking for me - Silas Middlemarch, The Irish Times."
"Would it be Mr Zebedee Haddock you are looking for?"
"No, I don't think so, I told you, his first name begins with O."
"What is your enquiry in connection with, please?"
"I don't know. As I said, he was looking for me. Silas Middlemarch, The Irish Times."
"One moment please sir. Who shall I say is calling, sir?"
"I believe I might in passing also have mentioned this. Silas Middlemarch, The Irish Times."
"Putting you through"
"And what company are you with, please?"
"The Irish Times."
"And the name again is . . .?"
"Silas Middlemarch."
"Simon Piddlestarch, Irish Chimes. Make front-door bells, Simon, do we? Putting you through now . . . I'm sorry, Simon, the line is busy, putting you on hold for a moment or two . . ."
Strangled cry from Silas Middlemarch, but too late. He is pitched into that telephonic limbo to which switchboard operators dispatch callers who do not precisely match their exacting standards and where, if they do not hang up, they will hear Greensleeves for the rest of time.
After 20 minutes, Silas Middlemarch rings off and starts again.
"Good afternoon, Haddock & Haddock, Jolene speaking, how may I help you?"
"Good afternoon, this is Silas Middlemarch of The Irish Times. I was on a few minutes ago, returning a call from a Mr Haddock who was looking for me, I don't know why. His first name begins with O."
"Which Mr Haddock are you looking for?"
"Ah, for a Mr O. Haddock. I'm returning his call. He rang me, Silas Middlemarch of The Irish Times, but I don't know his full name, only that he was looking for me."
"Mr Zebedee Haddock?"
"What is it in connection with?"
"I don't know. As I say, he was looking for me. I know his first name began with O."
"Would that be Mr Zebedee Haddock?"
"No, it wasn't Zebedee, it was, as I say, O something."
"And what is the nature of your business?"
"I don't know, he was calling me, Silas Middlemarch, The Irish Times."
"There is more than one Mr Haddock here. Who may I say is calling please, sir?"
This enquiry is followed by a very, very long intake of breath.
"Silas Middlemarch of The Irish Times. Look, I think I might have mentioned this, oh, a couple of times already."
"And what company are you with, Frank?"
"What?"
"What company will I say you represent?"
Whispered, strangled words: "The Irish Times."
"Putting you through now, Frank . . ."
Silas is not, however, put through. Instead, he is treated to the resonant plonkety plonk of Greensleeves for the odd aeon or two.
But this O. Haddock could have a big story. We do not lightly abandon the scent of a trail in this newspaper. Intrepid sleuth-hound to the last, Silas Middlemarch rings off and dials again.
"Haddock & Haddock, Jolene speaking, how may I help you?"
"Good afternoon, my name is Silas, S-I-L-A-S, Middlemarch, M-I-D-D-L-E-M-A-R-C-H, of The Irish Times, and I believe we might have spoken before, I was looking for Mr O. Haddock, but not Zebedee. Can you help me, please?"
"Certainly, sir. Who will I say is calling?"
The croak of a toad being crammed feet-first through an electric pencil-sharpener here follows. Through gritted teeth Silas repeats his name, braced for the worst, which duly follows. "And the company name, please?" Silas provides it, a snarl roaming inside him like a caged tiger.
"Putting you through now, Wesley," carols Jolene cheerfully, and vanishes from the line. Silas utters a small animal cry of doom, but after a few minutes of Alas-my-love-you-do-me-wrong, in the key of plonkety-plonk, a female voice pertly enquires: "Is that Wesley?"
Oh bliss, bliss, paradise, never mind the name-change, Silas is past the first hurdle! "Yes! Yes! Is that Mr Haddock's secretary?"
"No, this is still the switch, Jolene. Could you tell me the name of your company, please?"
"I've told you this already! Ten times! Eleven! The Irish Times!"
"And what is the nature of your call?"
Customer service
"Oh please, please, I can't take any more of this."
"In that case Dessie, I'll put you through to our customer service department . . ."
Aaaarrrggghhhhh, followed by Greensleeves for 15 minutes, ending with a cheery voice declaring: "Jolene speaking, how may I help you?"
"This is Silas Middlemarch, The Irish Times," in a whimper. "I am looking for Mr O. Haddock. Please, please help me. I am no longer young. The century draws on. Help."
"Sounds as if you're looking for Mr Obadiah Haddock. Who shall I say is calling, please?"
"Silas Middlemarch."
"And what company are you with, Brendan?"
"The Irish Phooking Times, You P-Brained Oo-Anquar! "
"And what is your call in connection with, please, Brian?" But all she hears in reply is the sound of a man throttling himself with a phone-cable . . .
If you run a company, are you sure your telephonist is not a Jolene? These days, outside this newspaper of course, most of them are.