The Wrong Number Knew My Shift Pattern

The first message said: "Sorry mate, running late, be with you 6."

Wrong number. I said so.

The second, two days later: "Traffic bad. You in tonight?"

I said, again, wrong number, and I blocked it.

The third came from a different number. It said: "Don't block me. You finish at 22:15 on Thursdays."

I do finish at 22:15 on Thursdays. I have done, at that point, for two years.

I did what you are supposed to do, which is take it to the police, and they were kind and thorough and completely powerless, and they told me to keep a log, and I have a log, and it is eleven pages long.

The messages were never threatening. That is what I have never been able to make anybody understand. They were logistical.

"You'll be in at 22:40. There's no rush."

"Take the long way tonight, the bridge is closed." (It was.)

"Your car needs oil."

My car needed oil.

I changed my number. It found me in nine days.

I moved flat — I actually moved, at some cost, because I am the kind of person who cannot sleep with a thing like this in the room — and for eleven weeks there was nothing, and I started to breathe, and I got a cat, and I painted the kitchen.