On the 20th of December at precisely 00.00 hours, the phone rang in the Jones house. Irie shuffled downstairs in her nightdress and picked up the receiver. ‘Erhummmm. I would like you yourself to make a mental note of both the date and the time when I have chosen to ring you.’ ‘What? Er . . . what? Is that Ryan? Look, Ryan, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s midnight, yeah? Is there something you wanted or—’ ‘Irie? Pickney? You dere?’ ‘You granmuvver is on the telephone extension. She wished to talk to you also.’ ‘Irie,’ said Hortense excitably. ‘You gwan have to speak up, me kyan hear nuttin’—’ ‘Irie, I repeat: have you noted the date and the time of our call?’ ‘What? Look, I can’t . . . I’m really tired . . . could this wait until . . .’ ‘The 20th, Irie. At O hundred hours. Twos and zeros . . .’ ‘You lissnin’, pickney? Mr Topps tryin’ to explain someting very im-par-tent.’ ‘Gran, you’re going to have to talk one at a time . . . you just hauled me out of bed . . . I’m, like, totally knackered.’ ‘Twos and zeros, Miss Jones. Signifying the year 2000. And do you know the month of my call?’ ‘Ryan, it’s December. Is this really—’
