I don’t get many callers. Hardly ever has anyone passed by my flat and just decided to call in because they were in the neighbourhood. This isn’t Ireland. People generally phone ahead to see if I will be home and to gauge my mood before venturing forth. Last week, I had a delivery and the chap was complaining that my buzzer wasn’t working (or at least that’s what I thought he said). Yesterday, I was expecting a visitor. I checked my intercom and it was dead to the world. So I did something I usually don’t do unless in dire emergency – and this hardly qualified: I picked up the phone and called the Management Company.
Deep breath. They answered. I asked, hopefully, in Hungarian, if they spoke English. Nem! And a very loud NEM at that. Usually at this stage, I’d hang up and then call one of my Hungarian-speaking mates to do the work for me. But this time, I perservered. In very halting Hungarian, I told her who I was, where I was living, and why I was calling. I had to be a little creative about the doorbell and the telephone as I couldn’t remember the word for intercom.I hung up hoping I wouldn’t get back from the Clinic to find my front door painted a bright shade of purple.
Three hours later, I came back. And my intercom was working. Coincidence or progress? I know which one I’m going for 🙂