Ring, Ring. Who's There?

I have lately been making use of the excellent Overground line to travel around East London and have been fascinated by how its passengers reflect the ethnic and social diversity of the population it serves. My optional pastimes during these journeys are reading, snoozing, people-watching and - courtesy of mobile phones - eavesdropping. The delicious practice of assessing people by their dress, demeanour and habit, without directly engaging them, has become more seductive now that phone conversations are in such abundance. It is one thing to sit opposite a person and try to guess from outward appearance what their life comprises but the experience is enhanced by the availability of these audible clues as to the state of their finances, their relationships, their work, their pleasures and their frustrations.

I am surprised by the extent to which some people are willing to proclaim the details of their own and others’ lives to strangers although I suppose this may be characteristic of more extrovert types - with or without the aid of mobile phones. One young woman on a rush-hour train had a lengthy and very public phone conversation with her father about her first day in a new job (temporary, while she considered her options to study architecture further) at a private clinic. She listed some of the famous clients, who included Helen Bonham Carter, but - because it was her first day - was unable to provide us with details of their ailments. Her new employers should have checked her Facebook pages before engaging her: there they might have discovered that she is the kind of person given to indiscretion.

But the last train of the day is the best source of such entertainment. Many of the travellers are loose-tongued as a result of drinking and there is often a congenial, relaxed atmosphere in the carriages. One night I was listening to a couple of foreigners discussing the spelling of the words ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ and what possible reason there might be for including the letter ‘w’ in one but not the other. I was tempted to intervene with an etymological explanation but was distracted by the girl sitting next to me who phoned her bank to report that her bag had been stolen in a pub. During the course of her call she revealed to all within earshot the details of her identity - name, address, date of birth, mother’s maiden name etc. I became concerned about her indiscretion, since stalking and identity theft are known issues and one is best advised to be careful.

At the opposite end of the scale are the reticent people who don’t make calls and are reluctant even to answer them. They will silence the ringing promptly, look abashed, whisper in monosyllables and hang up having revealed nothing of interest to their prurient audience: nothing, that is, except for that ringtone which, in itself, comprises a clue. Take the familiar Nokia tune which signifies an unfashionable old handset - or an unfashionable old person; or one of the stock tones chosen from the menu of a smartphone which defines someone with the latest gadget but neither the will nor the wit to customise it; or a downloaded fragment of music chosen for its personal meaning which marks out a tech-savvy but sentimental person; and then there is the novelty sound-effect which was amusing at the time but now is a bit of an embarrassment. There but for...

One such ringtone I heard on a train to Stoke went like this: it was the sound of a mullah calling the faithful to prayer, the whistling of an incoming shell and the finality of an explosion. I reckon that one sounding out on the last train through London E1 would be way beyond embarrassing for its owner.