I have two phones: one has my SIM card from Australia and one has my English SIM. I used to keep both of these on because I thought people back home might want to send me a message.

One morning, at 3 AM, I was jolted out of sleep by my mobile ring. I fumbled around my bedside table until I found the vibrating, flashing, squalling thing.

“Hello,” I said blearily.

The lady on the phone said something.

“Huh?”

She repeated it. “This is Marion from the optometrist. I wanted to let you know that you can pick up your glasses now.”

“Wha?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

“This is Marion from the optometrist on High Street Road.”

In my daze, I recognised the name of a street back home in Melbourne. I started getting annoyed. “Do you know you’ve reached a number in England? England overseas?”

“Can I speak to Jason?” Marion asked.

Jason is my brother. “Oh, um… let me give you his mobile number… It’s…” I recited the first seven numbers, then stopped. I had forgotten my brother’s phone number. I guessed the last three numbers. “I think that’s it. Yeah.” The numbers didn’t sound quite right but it was the best I could do at three in the morning.

Marion seemed to realise that this was the most she would get out of me so she said thank you and hung up.

I took the phone away from my ear and looked at it. Only now did I realise I had my Australian phone in my hand. I remembered that the phone number used to belong to my dad, who must have registered the number with the optometrist. No wonder Marion was confused.

I turned the phone off and went back to bed. I haven’t turned it on for a month now.