I have been sat by the phone all morning, but it has remained silent, apart from someone called Andy from a call centre in India trying to sell me something that I couldn’t understand due to his impenetrable accent.
I’m sure it would have been worth my while persevering with the conversation, but I had to cut him short because I was waiting for The Call.
The football transfer window closes at 23:00 GMT and I’m still holding on to the hope that the manager of a Premiership team just might look to me to be his creative midfield general. But I doubt it.
That’s one of the funny things about getting older — still thinking that dreams might still come true even when you are patently long since past it. Like thinking you might still make it as a professional footballer even though most players retire from the game in their early thirties.
It used to be said that you knew you were getting on in years when you are suddenly struck by how young the policemen are getting, but it’s hard to tell these days because you so rarely see one on the beat.
Doctors might be a better guide to the ageing process. Our family GP retired last year and although I haven’t had cause to visit his successor yet, I suspect that I will be taken aback by his apparent youthfulness.
My own rule of thumb is to compare ages with the current prime minister. This has worked well for me so far as even Tony Blair is older than I am, but it all fell apart when David Cameron took office as he is my junior by some year, so something else I can’t forgive him for.
These thoughts have distracted me from phone watching for long enough. If you happen to be reading this, Mr Ferguson, I’m still available. I’ll even play for free.