So I’m sat there in the wonderful silence of a just emptied office.
“Bleepy, bleep, bleep…” says my phone and I ignore it. It’s probably just Vodaphone telling me I’ll get free texts for an hour in February if I spend another 43p on ring tones or some such.
[Five Great British minutes pass]
“Bleepy, bleep, bleep…” erhhhh, I sigh. I’m trying to get some open-eyed sleep here. I glance to my phone and it’s glowing it’s little flashy “I have something for you” glow. “Leave me alone world”, I think out load and continue to ignore.
[A further five minutes go by]
“Bleepy, bleep, bleep…” I take a cleansing breath, sit up a little straighter and turn to the handset. The screen is progressively lighting up then darkening out as I stare. “Oh well” I think, “it could be a dirty text…”.
I take hold of the phone, closing my eyes wearily as I bring it closer, flicking the screen up with my thumb, revealing the keypad beneath and unlocking the myriad delights that lie within.
I pause for a second then open my eyes. “Low Battery” it says on the half-dark screen. The closing down animation begins and blingy-blongs at me as the phone dies.
Placing the silver now brick aside, I close my eyes and hold my head in my hands thinking about the genius that decided a cell phone’s final resources would be best spent on bleeping and flashing the technicolour death rattle I just experienced. Probably the same wonder-kint that devised the system that sent me 17 e-mails while I was on holiday, to inform me that I had too many e-mails in my inbox.
I raise my head, a solitary tear trickling down my cheek with the final realisation of why they’re actually called cell phones…