|You call it medicine, I call it a gross invasion of privacy.|
I’m looking for a new phone. I don’t require much from a phone - I’m not a teenager with one welded to my hand, living my whole life in cyberspace. I’m a grumpy old woman who wants to phone firms to harangue them for their laxity of service and to send sarcastic messages to my friends and family. That’s all.
A good camera would be nice. My current phone takes pictures but by the time I've got on to the right programme and clicked all the right buttons it’s another time of day. Sometimes the subject matter has emigrated to Australia or grown into an adult before I can select the right button.
The other day, though, I actually managed to take a good photo. The cat was ill. To spare her blushes, I won’t tell you her symptoms. Suffice it to say the cure involved liquid paraffin and an indoor litterbox.
The better half helped me administer the medicine which was quite a success... for after wrapping her in a towel, I only had three deep scratches and a tetanus jab to show for it. He then went to work.
A couple of hours later, she had used her litterbox. I was so pleased I phoned the other half to tell him.
“Do you want me to take a picture to send you?” I asked excitedly.
A big sigh wafted across the airwaves. “No, you’re all right,” he replied drily.
I took one anyway and despite its pin sharpness, depth of colour and novel theme, I don’t think it’s going to win any photographic awards.
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