Dialling Dilemma

Today's football writers operating 'across all platforms' might care to reflect that before the 1970s there were no computers and therefore no emailing or Tweeting, and no mobile phones. In terms of reporting matches, we scribes were utterly in thrall to the clunky black telephone. In other words, if the phone wasn't working the match report pages of the nation's Pink Uns and Green Uns were left depressingly empty.
I experienced this particular crisis once, though I cannot remember the match or the date, except that it was an away fixture and that I had travelled there on the team coach.
There had been warnings during the week that a strike by phone operators was scheduled for the weekend, but it failed to provoke alarm because even if the office was not able to ring me at the ground I could still ring them using automatic dialling. So plans for the coverage of this Saturday afternoon Norwich City fixture went on as usual, and the sub-editors on the Pink Un paper anticipated nothing more than the usual busy shift.
I recall getting to the ground, sorting out which phone I was to use, and writing a match intro based on team selections. I then prepared to phone the intro and a little 'background colour' through to the Pink Un office in Norwich, where a typist was waiting for my call.
Only I couldn't. The booked reverse-charge call did not materialise, so I resorted to automatic dialling, which did not work, either. Someone in the Press Box said cheerily, 'You won't get through today, mate. All the phones are down.' Meanwhile, as the match duly kicked off, I visualised ranks of sports subs gazing at silent phones and empty pages, and lighting up more Woodbines than usual.
After a couple of minutes I tried the automatic dial again, trying to raise Norwich, and this time was relieved to hear it ringing-out. When the phone was answered, however, it was to discover that for some technical reason it was an unknown and somewhat surprised lady who spoke up. Are you the Pink Un? No, she said. Are you in Norwich? No, she said. I live in Rickmansworth.
Throughout the entire first half I must have dialled the Norwich Pink Un number a dozen times, and each time it was this nice lady in Rickmansworth who answered. I must say she was jolly decent about it. After five calls I got beyond profuse apologies and we began a conversation. No, she said, she was not interested in football. She had never been to a football match. By the eleventh call she confessed she was not at all irritated but was sufficiently intrigued to ask the score. I, meanwhile, was desperately trying to watch and make notes as well as contact my office where, I could imagine, heart attacks were happening on a regular basis.
Half-time came and went and still no contact, and still the lady in Rickmansworth was patience and calmness personified as my frantic calls increased in intensity. Then, as the second half kicked off, and as my diallings reached about No. 15, I suddenly got through to the Pink Un. There was a lot of catching up to do.
As for the unknown lady in Rickmansworth, I did at the time and can only do so again, praise her patience and courtesy. So if she is still out there, and if she can still remember the incident, one harrassed football reporter, a bored copy typist, five frantic sports sub-editors, a deeply worried sports editor, and thousands of Norwich City supporters who were not actually at the game, owe you a big thank-you.