Yes, the day of doom has arrived: I've bought a mobile phone. Never thought I'd see the day when I compromised my technophobia and bowed to the powers of the Evil Telecommunication Companies. Now people can phone me wherever I am. Out for a walk, in the supermarket, on the toilet. Can't a man have some privacy?
Well, no they can't because it's switched off. Hahahaahaha! Yes, I can go to the loo in peace. Plus I'm not giving anyone the number. Bwahahahahaha… And yes, I know that kind of defeats the purpose of having one, but tough.
I really only got it so that I could use it at Left Coast Crime to speak to She Who Must Be Spoken To When Husband Is Away To Make Sure She's Behaving Herself And Hasn't Blown Up The Kitchen By Leaving The Gas On Like Last Time. Well, that and so we'd have something to call for help with, should we get stuck in the 90 foot snowdrifts that blanket the world up here.
The only trouble, other than the fact that Tesco (where we bought the thing) have decided that I should be their marketing department's bitch (but if I sent them three million bits of information and a photocopy of my left testicle they'll take me off the list in 40 days), is that She Who Must has now decided that she wants one of her own.
We've gone for nearly 12 years without one, and now we've got to have two. Sigh, dear Stuart, sigh and roll your eyes in a theatrical manner. Apparently we can't share a phone because they're 'personal' things. Like a hairbrush.
"But," I said, in my best reasonable voice, "we do share a hairbrush."
"Oh… Do we?"
"Yes. You're thinking of 'toothbrush'."
She Who Must NEVER BE WATCHED Brushing Her Teeth shudders. "I still want my own phone."
And you can't argue with logic like that.
In other news I have a crick in my neck and we've got no eggs. So I had French Onion Soup for breakfast. And very nice it was too (the soup, not the crick, which is literally a pain in the neck).