In which our intrepid hero tells a sorrowful tale and marvels at the ingenuity of dog owners.

Motorola invented the mobile phone to make my life easier. And so, it does—although, I’m sure, not in the way that Motorola originally intended.

Ever since I dropped mine in a toilet, I’ve had enormous problems with the power train.

I’m never really sure, for instance, just how much charge is left in my battery, nor how long it will last before it simply shuts down. Charging my phone has become a logical extension of Schrödinger’s Cat, essentially an exercise in probability; at no time can I say definitively that I’m on a full charge.

To make matters worse, I’ve had tremendous difficulty in actually getting it to charge over the last week. All too often, I plug it in, and it only lasts a couple of minutes before—and I’m not sure how it does this—my phone notices that it’s winter and decides to go into hibernation. Often, this occurs whilst I’m trying to retrieve messages.

This is, needless to say, frustrating. However, I can say at least one good thing about this phenomenon: all that undirected rage that courses through my psyche now has an object. My phone is evil. My phone hates me. My phone is the single greatest cause of suffering in human history.

I’m very tempted to permanently divert my phone to my flatmate, shrug, give up on the whole thing and move back into a cave. If I get a message, my flatmate can forward it to me via carrier pigeon. I can cook over an open fire, lit by banging rocks together over a pile of kindling; my dietary requirements can be met through the brutal slaying of wild cattle.


In other news, I just had my faith in the quirkiness of capitalism affirmed. It appears that an Australian company now sells kits that enable you to disguise your doberman as a poodle. What next? Kits to disguise chihuahuas as real dogs?