There’s a lot of embarrassing rubbish on my mobile, including the logo.
As my husband pointed out, aliens could be mighty confused if they ever got their hands on it. I’m confused just looking at the memos. ‘Next book’ is one of them. Here I meant to jot down amazing plot ideas as they came to me while sitting on the 13 bus. But what could I have meant by ‘Dr Tiggywinkle’, and then something about cradling a fire extinguisher? It hardly seems the stuff of which Booker winners are made.
The shopping lists are easier to decipher. There’s no spellcheck on memos, so one list goes
Surely everyone likes a bit of Narnite on their bresd.
I have 389 bonkers photos, mostly blurred, which may be just as well. Alongside Remembrance Sunday in Aldeburgh and the cat sitting on my neck trying to suffocate me, there are toilet facilities in Lion Yard, Cambridge:
Here’s Sigmund Freud clutching his belly in what can only be an attack of womb envy:
I’ve kept this great memento of a shag on the beach:
There are slides from a lecture by Roger Neighbour:
Every cat owner has close-ups of their cat sleeping. I’m no exception.
I’ve kept some choice texts, like the one from Henk the oven cleaner, and the exchanges with wretched PPI claims companies. My usual text reply? PPISS OFF.
At five minute intervals, there’s a pop-up which invites me to validate my BlackBerry ID credentials. I’ve forgotten it, so that’s not going to happen.
There are a gazillion back and forth BBM exchanges from friends I never manage to meet, and WhatsApp messages from people I’ve never met in my life. One mystery missive asks me
Es tu cumple hoy?
If you speak any Spanish, you probably know this isn’t as obscene as it sounds.
I’ve no idea what else is on there, as the thing has just seized up. Excuse me. I’m just off to write a letter to Santa.
My next post should be a lot more festive as I’m going to a party. A Christmas blog hop, no less. And you’re invited too.