I’ve never really thought about how many peoples’ numbers I have. I suppose I probably have less than the average person, as I tend to be rather hopeless at keeping track of that kind of thing, especially when spanning multiple phones over the years. I tend to text or call the same few groups of people, and so the vast majority of people I could potentially contact I never have and probably never will. Amongst all these numbers, though I can begin to identify patterns; common threads as it were.

There are the more basic categories: those being the people I’m actually friends with and family which are both pretty standard but there are subtleties within the other groups. For example, there are the people who I have two numbers for; a new one and an old one but I’m not sure which one is which and don’t quite know the person well enough to find out. These people would be the friends who I would still call friends in a story but haven’t made an effort to contact probably since the story itself took place; the people who I only put a first name for and can’t figure out if they’re ‘Soccer-Maddie’ or ‘English-Class-Maddie’; or even the people who I have both a first name and a last name for and still have no idea how I know them. There are the coaches, teachers, parent’s friends who I talked to about an internship once, coworkers I like, coworkers I hope don’t have my number, guys I met once at a bar and probably won’t see again, group text people who I know only vaguely through friends of friends, the list goes on.

Until today, however, I had been blissfully unaware of a whole new category which unfortunately encompasses quite a few of these aforementioned categories.

I had just finished lunch and was gathering together both plate and cup to clear away. I was just trying to do my part in clearing up, simple enough. My phone, unbeknownst to me, had other, less helpful intentions. It decided, from my pocket, that voice control was needed and wheeled out who I call British Dave. As we have all found out at one time or another, once voice control is open, is once British Dave rears his ugly, meddling head, all hell breaks loose.

This particular hell breaking loose came in the form of a sneaky phone call. The problem with what is officially known as the Undercover Call is that there is very little control over to whom the call is directed. Luckily for me, my phone and I get along pretty well and I noticed the call before we got to the message stage of calling, although British Dave could have done some serious damage if he had really wanted to.

So there you have it. In an instant, my naïve little world had been shattered and in its place came the category of the MUVC (Mortifying Undercover Voice Call); an embodiment of all the people I would have to crawl into my room and hide for a week if British Dave ever tried calling again. I like to think that he was just trying to help me make friends with people I might not know as well in my contact list but British Dave really doesn’t know boundaries. I’m not very good at confrontation, so instead of teaching him who is acceptable to call, I’m going to try ignoring him again and hopefully he’ll get the message and stop trying to broaden my range of call-able “friends.”

I thought I should share mine and British Dave’s story, as a survivor of the MUVC. The little friend you call your phone, although mostly angel and helper, does have a hidden devil called the Voice Control and, when left unchecked, this tricky demon will try his very best to humiliate from a distance. Be warned of the category of phone numbers I hope you never come across and beware the ever-present threat of the MUVC.