Messages from the Virtual Idiot Dept

My partner has a phone. It looks like a spaceship. I have a phone that looks like a loofah. The difference between these ostensibly similar devices is that my phone does not work well in the bath either as a backscrubber or an underwater communication device; whereas I can’t make my partner’s do anything at all even standing next to EE’s gargantuan mast.

That’s because I’ve never worked out how to switch it on. By the same token I’ve never figured out how to switch it off either. She says it will make movies, take pictures, recite Shakespeare, jump up and down to the rhythm of the latest 007 Theme, act as a life raft in extreme circumstances. But I can’t ring anybody on it. Meanwhile, back at my loofah-phone, I can’t ring anybody on that either. I am told by nauseating folks at Vodaphone that it’s because I don’t put money in it. I bought it for ten quid twenty years ago; what more do they want?

I drool after those phones in the black and white ‘B’ films that people whir around with a middle finger, talk into a black stick-looking trumpet thing, and say something like “Give me Whitehall 1212, please operator”. Now, I have to key in a 54 digit, digitally secured code (that turns out not to be secure because some flea bitten company like Norton or Avast or somebody, wants to charge me a mortgage to ensure that I am secure) and after doing that I find I’ve straightened out the National Debt while waiting a day and a half in a queue for somebody from the phone company to come back off holiday to tell me how much I owe them.

So I now employ a completely revolutionary device called a ‘Hermit-o-phone’. By using this I don’t have to ring anybody at all. The first Hermit-o-phone I had I came across accidentally. I picked a banana up in Tesco and, lo and behold….it didn’t  ring! This is the phone for me, thinks I. There was also, I soon found, a bonus. I couldn’t ring anybody else, either. Another big advantage is that nobody has sent me a bill. For anything. I’ve tried this with various ‘apps’. A stick, a dog biscuit, a JCB tyre; they don’t ring you on them either.

So I’m stretched out on my blow-up mattress watching the rain outside my shed, banana on the one hand, tea and macaroon on the other.

I might have a peaceful conversation by macaroon, shortly. You’re never alone with a macaroon……..

In Praise of People we Pay Good Money to Break Things For Us

The latest in a long line of parcels that arrived as a shovelful of bits in a box that was once square-ish and had metamorphosed into some distant cousin of the arthropod species,  convinced me that sending anything to climates more distant than next door is seriously questionable. And if you got through that sentence without retching, you are made of stern stuff, and I doff my hat.

I would have to say, in the interests of fair appraisal, that my curiosity in any place more distant than arm’s length, on the Richter Scale of zero to ten, is about minus five hundred and seventy three. And you can multiply that by a lot if it’s raining.

Even taking this into consideration, I have toyed with the idea of stowing away in one of my parcels booked in for shipping (pick your own company; in my experience their records of losing/ breaking/ delivering to people I’ve never heard of, are remarkably similar), with my trusty machete and Heckler and Koch automatic. Unfortunately, I would have to be built of sheet stainless steel to survive the journey. So I shelved that plan.

So what is the most effective packing for a piece of valve equipment? Bearing in mind that there are few materials (in this Universe at any rate) that will stand being run over by a fork truck, this gets to be a problem that Einstein might balk at. So I phoned him.

“Is your name Einstein?” I asked.

“Yes” said Einstein.

“Would that be Albert Einstein?” I asked.

“It’s actually Einstein Trimblestrop; actually” said Einstein.

“I’m sure you’ll do” I said hopefully. “How would you pack a parcel to be delivered by courier to Spain? Or anywhere, really.” I asked.

“I wouldn’t send it at all” said Einstein. He thought a bit. “I did send a Victorian cast iron commode to Venezuela once. They said it looked like a toilet when it got there. I suppose that was near enough.”

“How did you pack it, Mr. Einstein?”

“I dropped it on the courier’s foot and he packed it in his plaster of Paris splint.”

So that’s solved that one. I’m now looking for my brand new packet of Macaroons shipped from Venezuela.  Easily mistaken for a box of nails when shaken.

Reconstituting smashed Venezuelan macaroons is an extended project, I can tell you. Almost as bad as repairing a new Studiomaster Powerhouse.

Now, where’s my brand new packet of tea from Venezuela………?