Tales From the Pub # 2
For a change, it is not one of my frankly rather grim Local Pubs.
I am in the city. Down by the river. Late afternoon-ish. The courtyard of a slightly-swanky-but-not-unbearably-so bar.
I sip my drink. The sun hits my face and for a second –just a second mind you- I get one of those heart-surging ‘hey, everything might be O.K.’ type feelings.
They never last longer than a second.
The other side of the courtyard. A Guy and his Girl sit. They are rather well turned-out, as befits their surroundings.
The Guy takes a Device from his pocket and starts tinkering. Being a man myself, I am rather intrigued. It is, after all, a Device.
I peer at this thing. Is it a GameBoy of some sort? I keep peering. No. They don’t come in purple.
My goodness! It is one of those Blackberry-things! How exciting/annoying.
Let me make myself clear. I think that unless you are an on-call brain surgeon or something, there is no sensible reason why a person would NEED a MOBILE PHONE. They are, without doubt, RIDICULOUS devices.
If I feel the need to speak to somebody badly enough, I will make arrangements to be in the SAME ROOM as them. If it’s not that important, it can WAIT.
Imagine my feelings regarding mobile email-sendy-type things.
I stare at the Guy, fascinated to see what sort of individual would possess such a Device. He looks around, checks to see if anyone notices he is holding this mind-boggling piece of technology (I avert my eyes) and starts tapping away.
After a moment, the Girl whips her mobile phone from her purse and starts tapping in a similar manner.
The sound of fake nails on keypad is not pleasant.
I marvel at these two. They have made the decision to go to a place together. Have ‘got ready’. Have chosen a venue. Have come here. And now sit, hip-to-hip, not speaking to each other, sending presumably very stupid messages to people miles away.
I am aghast.
The Girl’s phone makes a beep-beep noise. She reads, giggles, nudges the Guy and then begins furious clacking of acrylic nails.
The Guy’s purple thing makes a noise, he reads, giggles, nudges, and starts clacking.
It dawns on me.
THEY ARE FUCKING EMAILING EACH OTHER!
My head promptly explodes and my soon-to-be dead body starts whirling around the place like the android on Alien, smashing glasses and kicking tables high into the air.
I finish my drink and leave.