Not a Zinger

I did have a mobile phone, but I left it in a taxi last year when I was pissed. I hadn’t noticed that it was gone until I got the bill. It had been used to make 180 quid worth of calls to Islamabad. It still stings me to think about it.

I consoled myself at the time into believing that the phone was used by an Asylum-seeker desperate to speak to a family member with a terminal illness in Afghanistan. Thanks to my misplaced phone, this person was able to share final moments in communication together.

However, it was more likely used to deal drugs, or I was an inadvertent contributor to bin Laden’s campaign of terrorism.

Call Centre Tony brought a phone in for me today. It is massive. It rattles rather than vibrates.

At least you don’t have to have fingers like drinking straws to work the damn thing. Trouble is, now that I have got it home I’ve realised that it sets off my next-door neighbour’s doorbell every time I use it.

I have been playing a high-tech version of knock-a-door run all evening.