Monday, January 25, 2010
I've been putting it off for almost a fortnight now, but it's looking like I'm finally going to have to cave and buy a new phone. This is killing me for a couple of reasons, not least of which is the fact that I'm convinced my own misplaced mobile is actually in the house somewhere. I remember exactly where and when I saw it last - the dining table at 11.30pm on Friday 15th January, Garda - but despite retracing my steps and pleading with St. Anthony and searching for it in all sorts of improbable places like in the oven and under the boot liner of my car, it refuses to be found.
I also happen to really like the phone, a Sony Ericsson w890i. Slim and silver with a damn good camera and an FM radio to boot, I looked forward to owning one since before its launch. I've had it for just over 18 months and it was still in fairly good nick, although it had started turning itself off and then back on again in the middle of phone calls which was starting to properly get on my wick.
And I fecking know that as soon as I get a new one, the old one will surface again. Which would be good, in a way, because at least then I would have all my contact numbers and all the photos of nights out and fancy doors and trees laden with snow and the like that are stored on it. And I could agonise over whether to hoard it for nostalgia and old time's sake, or to try and make a few quid by selling it, or to salve my conscience by donating it to the likes of The Jack & Jill Foundation, which would keep me occupied for days - weeks, maybe. But it's not very green to buy a new phone and then find the old one and I think the eco worrier in me might implode with guilt if that were to happen.
Better just go and look in the couch... again.
Thirtieth time's the charm, right?