I have dropped my phone down the toilet…again. The first time was due to a hiccup, both literally and metaphorically speaking, catapulting it out of my hand and dumping it down the u bend. This time It was wrenched from my hand by an unknown force and dropped down the khazie. Despite partners valiant attempts at rice and airing cupboard treatment for 48 hours and it, tantalisingly, coming back to life for a day, it burnt itself out (I was using it as a hand warmer until I actually engaged my brain and told myself that a hand warmer is one of the few claims Apple doesn’t make of its phones).
All of which puts me in the unlikely position of now being envied by my four children, as I have replaced phone disaster number two with an I phone 6. This prompted daughter 1 to open her negotiations: if you have step dad’s phone and step dad has my phone then I can have your I phone 6 mum.
Every time I get my phone out it is met with words of awe and appreciation of its colour, it’s form and complete incredulity that I don’t want to use the thumb print device. It is caressed and handled by the girls as if it were a work of art; which, I suppose in 21st century terms it is. The I phone 7 is coming out soon, daughter 4 informs me this evening, as if hoping to dent my pride in owning my piece of history. Or perhaps she’s just hoping for another hiccup.