I am on a call talking to a VC investor in Singapore who is telling me what the internet boom is doing to valuations of various Indian firms that are trying for listing on the Nasdaq. This is 1999 and I’m one year into a seven-year baby break trying to keep some freelance work, some training, and some editing work going.
Mobile phones are still luxury goods and not something I can afford. I’m stuck to the phone in the wall, taking notes furiously as the American twang goes on and on.
And then my blood runs cold. I can hear the gasman trundling the cylinder up the stairs just outside. This was the time before piped gas. I had booked the gas, but this man chooses these precise 15 minutes of this day to deliver. While still talking on the phone, my brain is doing the thing women are famous for—multi-thinking like crazy. If he rings the bell, my toddler who is sleeping is going to wake up, and wail. I’m on the phone interviewing a person key to my story, someone who has given me time after days of chasing.