Rage Against the Machine

I got my first mobile phone in 2002. Prior to that, I’d resisted getting one because there was no real need for me to have one. Working freelance in events quickly put an end to my Luddite status and I was lumbered with an old clunker of a beast (Nokia) that quickly became indispensible professionally. I latched on soon enough to the personal benefits of mobile technology when I moved interstate. Lonely and missing my friends, I found much appeal in texting drunken messages in the wee hours:

I miss yoooouuuu……..hic!

That Nokia lasted me a lifetime. It bore witness to some truly memorable experiences. It contained the travails of moving interstate and coming out of a four year relationship. It saw me through about six job changes. It contained all the early courtship texts sent between me and my soon-to-be husband. And then in fitting fashion I lost it somewhere in Changi Airport en route from Australia to begin my new life in London.

My first mobile love...

Since then many mobiles have come and gone. They break down on or fall into the toilet. I lose them in my own house or they disappear in film cinemas. As another one bites the dust, a part of me mourns:

Every time we say goodbye, I cry a little
Every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little…

And then when the replacement comes, it’s hard on both of us. The animosity is instant. I poke at its buttons with disdain and it blanks me. I poo poo the software and it freezes. Finally one of us snaps. I throw it across the room screaming:

I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! It doesn’t work!

But then slowly we start to get to know one other. Hidden qualities emerge which hold me in thrall. I start to open up, trusting it with private messages and details.

A miracle happens. We are happy together.

For awhile.

A Week in the Life

Sick or not sick, life goes on. Last week passed in a whirl of birthday celebrations, overseas visitors and a jaunt to Wiltshire to visit friends.

First up was a night out at the Punchbowl which is the pub in Mayfair owned by Mr Ex-Madonna, Guy Ritchie. When you hear about these celebrity haunts in the media, you get the impression that they are touched by stardust given all the fuss generated. After spending four hours in said venue, I concluded that it was not stardust that lingered in the air at the Punchbowl but the faint whiff of Eau de Bull.

The charm of the place eluded me but maybe that was because I was starving. I’d ordered the scallops for my mains so when all six of them arrived I thought:

Where’s the rest?

As it was my friend's birthday, we wanted a few happy snaps but the small print on the menu clearly stated:

No photography is allowed in the venue.

Oh please. As if I want to take photos of a bunch of bankers and tourists. Get over yourself Guy. And how about churning out a decent movie one of these days eh?

Dean Street Townhouse where we took our visitor from Oz the following night was pleasure itself. It’s so refreshing when a place lives up to its hype. Part of the Soho House group, Dean Street is a relatively new kid on the block and has been garnering rave reviews ever since it debuted several months ago. I can happily contest that the food, atmosphere and service were delightful. And like the previous night, I did not leave hungry. Only hungry for more.

The weekend saw us winging it to Wiltshire for a long promised visit with friends who have a weekend hideaway out that way. The weather was delightful and our friends whisked us on a jaunt through the English countryside, incorporating the Ridgeway which is the oldest known road in England. We also went to see the White Horse of Uffington which dates back to the Bronze Age and has beside it, Dragon Hill, purported to be the site where St George slew the dragon.

Seeing where a dragon was killed was not too shabby a way to end the week. And we could take photos.