I have found a rebound relationship. He's black, smooth, fashionable, incredibly handy in a crisis, reliable, cutting edge, everyone who meets him wants to touch him, and he comes with me everywhere. His name? Phone. iPhone.
Much as I'd love to satisfy female stereotypes and pretend that I can't set a VHS to record and don't know how to change the timer on my boiler so that my man can have his Knight In Shining Armour moments, the fact is that I'm a gadget fan through and through. Since I picked up my new handset on Monday, I've been unable to get to sleep before 1am, so busy have I been with rearranging the icons on my phone into order of usage frequency and downloading new applications from iTunes so that I can check the London Underground lines' status with a single click, or turn the whole screen white to use it as a torch. By the middle of next week, I'm hoping to have programmed it to answer my work phone and send emails so that I no longer have to go into the office at all.
I'm still limping, although today I am wearing a black skirt, black tights and black shoes (as well as some items on my top half), and I positioned my bandage over the tights so that I could remove it if necessary. I thought it looked quite jaunty and I was proved right when someone by the lift said it looked like I was wearing one spat. That's me, a forgetful twenties gangster with a shiny new phone. Hooray.
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