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The Long Number.


The tone with which the woman on the phone said yes to every fourth digit of my debit card number as I read it out suggested she enjoyed it a little too much.

She was far too breathy for my liking. By the eighth number in I thought she'd beg me not to stop. I started to panic. What if the last few disappointed? What if she needed a seven when I could only supply a four? Until today, I’d never considered the sixteen embossed figures on my TSB Classic Account Card in an erotic context.

(My real bank account details have been disguised to prevent fraud. Not that I have money to steal in the first place.)

In reality, it was hilarious. It took all the control I could muster not to laugh. We’d been conversing normally until I started reading it out, when it switched from local call to premium chat line in an instant. Still, at least she likes her job.
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