My £ 400 slab of pleasure, otherwise known as the iPhone, skidded along the kitchen side as it was jostling for space with the scales and the kitchen towel and the steel bowls and the cracked eggs and the wooden spoon. It skid and skid and skid like a graceful black figure skater on ice, eventually jumping the sink lip and lodging itself right underneath the crockery drainer, into the tray that collects barely a quarter of an inch of water. And so it glugged itself to oblivion, as I watched, handheld beaters whirring away, a little bemused by the screen lighting itself up upon contact with water. For a moment I thought it costs so much because it works in water. Now it is in a hyperbaric recovery chamber filled with dry rice but it ain't looking good. So if you are one of my friends, I suggest you call me at home and leave me a message if I am not in. And don't forget your name and number because, quite frankly, I won't really know who you are, nor how to get back to you.
