Once upon a time, I bought an Android phone, and declared it to be the most wonderful thing ever. I laughed at people with iPhones, called them sheep, including my lovely man friend, said they were unnecessary and overpriced and that mine did everything theirs did.
Then I started using an iPhone. For professional reasons. Of course.
I stand corrected. The damn thing is like a body part at this point; it’s my timepiece, my camera, pretty much holder of almost all photos taken of my son since the day he was born (and some shots of the scan pictures too) and my connection to the outside world while I take on Bus Eireann on a daily basis. It also keeps me addicted to Candy Crush Saga, and entertained a brief flirtation with a game created by Kim Kardashian which was surprisingly addictive (I am not proud).
It’s survived a car accident, a fall into the toilet, more falls to the floor than I can count, and I’m its second owner. So my dismay last week to watch it fall when disembarking a Bus Eireann bus with the buggy, parked too far away from the kerb for comfort, was intense when I spotted a massive series of cracks covering the screen. It’s decided to not keep all of its glass as well, which is quite distressing, as I’ve grown rather fond of making phone calls and not winding up with a face full of glass. Typically, I’d decided to not bother any more with the insurance, thinking I had the Nokia of iPhones given its incredible superpowers thus far. Silly me.
So I find myself planning to queue up. In the morning, outside a shop, to buy a new phone on release day. On a morning where I may actually get a lie in, because E is still on his holidays in Wexford until Saturday evening (Thank you Granny and Grandad for the gift of sleep!). It looks pretty and shiny from the ads and I’m assuming that going on its non broken screen and lack of war wounds it may run a fair bit better than my battered and broken iPhone 4. I justify this to myself by the shards-of-glass-in-the-face excuse, and refuse to accept that I have become a full on sheep. Surely that makes it socially acceptable? Or maybe this Mammy thing has made me lose the plot altogether.
Anyway. Shiny. New. Retail Therapy.