1. On TV last last was an advert for ‘Partner Tracker‘, an app that allows you to know exactly where your partner is at any time, using the GPS and GSM thingies in their mobile phone (whatever they are – presumably a very small bearded person called George Pernard Shaw or George Sherpa Maw who can shout their location loudly and continually at a frequency too high for normal human ears to hear but which can be detected by specially trained dachshunds back at Partner Tracker HQ. You may scoff, but this seems much more plausible to me than a little lump of plastic and silicon in your hand communicating silently with a network of robot brains orbiting the planet thousands of miles above your head using nothing but zeros and ones). Will this be the end of infidelity? More likely the end of trust and peace of mind and the beginning of precisely the kind of obsessive neurotic behaviour which leads people to look outside their relationship for fun. No longer will teens be able to lie to their parents “I’m going over to Jo/Joe’s house to study” when in reality they’re snorting coke off the cover of their maths textbook in a local strip club. The naughty little beggars. Harumph.
2. Another advert promised a ring tone for your mobile in which a cartoon bearded skeleton called Achmed cries “Silence! I kill you!” whenever you get an incoming call. The Dead Terrorist Ring Tone. WTF? I’m all for freedom of expression and humour at someone else’s expense, but really, is this funny? Nope. If I hear anyone with this ringtone I may be forced to stab them with a pencil as a favour to the collective gene pool.
3. On the news I saw the current head of the British Armed Forces, the charmingly named Sir Jock Stirrup. I kid thee not. Seriously, even Dickens couldn’t have made that one up. I hope he has an aide called Captain Darling.
4. See? I’ve cheered up. The sight of my brother and sister-in-law yesterday (via the marvel of Skype video-calling) vainly trying to catch a doomed mouse which their cat, Bumpy, had helpfully brought in to the house as a love token, before they could collapse into bed after a hard weekend taking my almost-one-year-old niece to her first Guy Fawkes Bonfire Night, was enough to give me hiccups from laughing. It also reminded me that the worst I can complain about is that I miss them, which is my own fault entirely. Everything else in my life is fine. So I’m going to get a grip and stop whining.