The cellular telephone really is the cherry on the top of the Coogee Bay Hotel gelato of capitalism. First of all they invent a little box that humanians have prospered without for several thousand years. Then they sell it to plumbers. Then they sell it to men in double-breasted Zegnas. Then they sell it to twelve-year-olds, and next thing you know it's a non-negotiable accoutrement of modern life. As if all this weren't bad enough, after two years the battery wears out. You take your box to the Telstra Shop at Northlandia and "Oh dear me," says the salesdude, "that's a really old model. We don't make batteries for that anymore." It's TWO BLINKING YEARS OLD, you say. THAT'S THE GESTATION PERIOD FOR AN ELEPHANT. You pop over to the electronics shop on the other side of Myer-den-of-iniquity to check whether Telstradude is just trying to make you buy a new phone, and DickSmithdude confirms, oh my word no, ha ha, oh no, you're not going to find a new battery for that old thing.
Grr, I say. Grr. I have a brand new mobile telephone, and the old one was JUST FINE. As phones go. Give or take the odd functioning battery.
The good news is:
And just in case you missed the fact that Harriet is cuddling Beatrice's rear leg: