My Number

I was struck with the thought of volunteering at a local museum, and I strode across town to rave about my merits as a potential assistant.
"I'm extremely organised," I said to the lady who greeted me and led me into her office. She looked at me over her glasses, considered my promise and my proposal.
"Well," she said, beaming, "we'd love to have you here with us. Just write your name and telephone number on this piece of paper and we'll call you."
Alas, I failed the final hurdle; stumbled, I did, over the last and oldest trick in the book.
"I'm sorry," I said, after squinting at the blank paper for an eternity.
She looked at me inquisitively.
"I don't actually know my number. It's new, you see. I might have it written down somewhere. No, that's an old receipt for cheese. I know it's here. I think there's a 4 in it."
There followed much fumbling in my bag, much furious blushing and much graceful patience from the other side of the desk.
"Don't worry," she insisted. "I don't even know my number. I never call it!"
True, and kind of her to say so; but I doubt that it would slip her mind in an interview.
I, nonetheless, eagerly await the decision of the board of directors.