Since moving from my old life to my new gritty city one in London I've been plagued by mysterious phonecalls every day. No, not from an angry Danny Dyer, from debt collection agencies grasping on to the one method they have of finding me since I left a lot of unpaid bills at my last address.
I've put the number into my phone as Do Not Answer but sometimes I answer my phone without looking in the hope that it'll be some hot babe, or maybe a non-soul-destroying job offer.
No such luck.
What I tend to do when faced with having to talk to these people is simple. I don't talk. I heavy breathe, like a stalking, thus reversing the harassment back onto them. I hope it traumatises them. I really do.
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