Sitting By My Telephone: Mobile phones, or 'cells' as they are called Stateside, has never been technology I have welcomed. Agreed, our land-line is ex-directory, but that choice was Mrs. B's when she did a 12 year stint on the graveyard shift, and didn't want to be woken up by some idiot selling double glazing. Consequently, unless it's friends or family, the land-line rarely rings; so to any mobile-friendly friends I say 'Well, you don't phone me on the land-line, so why should I pay £35 or whatever a month for you not to phone me on a mobile?'
But in this technological age we live in, mobile's can either be a friend or a foe; because the calls are traceable via those ugly masts which seem to spring up overnight; except in the West Country, which has an exceptional number of 'blind spots' probably due to the masts looking horrendous eyesore's in the middle of Exmoor, Dartmoor or similar; so they can't get permission to erect them.
In some homicide cases, a murderer has been convicted when plod has traced the calls to find he was there when he swears he wasn't, and likewise, people presumed dead in earthquake's and other disasters like 9/11 have been found alive by calling their mobile number.
But my trusty old Nokia relic finally turned up its toes last week in Plymouth, when the rubber beneath the keys lost its bounce and it took a good 5 minutes of fury and frustration to call a number. Then, just mentioning it as small-talk when visiting local MHB friend, Eddie Evans, last Saturday, he gleefully found an old one, (but younger than my clapped-out model, nevertheless), in a drawer, to say: 'Take that one on, Al, swap the chip and charge it up and it'll do you a turn!'
Grateful and 'mobile' again, although it does no more or less than the previous one, it's just the job should I (a) need to call the RAC if the car breaks down, or (b) need to find someone at a gig.
And what are those 'blue-tooth' phones people have sprouting from their ear like a birth deformity; and why haven't we got the guts to approach them to say; 'Hey, mate, you look a right plonker!'

RIP: Edward Woodward, or Robert McCall from 'The Equaliser,' star of 'The Wicker Man' etc; who passed on the 16th. During an interview once, he mentioned how Sir Laurence Olivier always called him 'fart in the bath,' because when you say 'Edward Woodward,' that's what it sounds like. Priceless!