It appears my luck with telephones is running about the same as my luck with women.
This morning I woke up to find one dead on the floor next to my bed. A telephone, that is. I can only assume it was a suicide or an accident. Perhaps in the same category as Amy Dudley's death.
But things had not been going well for the telephone. It had stopped talking to my new computer about a week ago. (Jealousy, I suspected.)
And during the trip to China, it had decided to discharge its battery sporadically. For no good reason. And a mobile telephone without a battery is not very -- well, mobile.
It was not ever thus. If you had asked me how long I had been using my HTC Touch Diamond (the deceased’s formal name), I would have guessed at least two years.
But I would have been wrong, It has been just over a year. I know that because I rhapsodized poetically (or prosaically) over my new relationship in close calls -- and that was January of 2011.
Dead is dead. And I use a telephone down here not only for communication, but as my Bible reader, to track my finances, and to avoid missing appointments (like I did this week with no reminder).
There was no choice. Off to Manzanillo I went. The only place nearby where I could find the type of Android telephone I wanted. My mother, my brother, and Garry Denness of The Mexile all have Samsung Galaxies. And that was good enough for me.
The clerk showed me an iPhone, but there was no possibility of that purchase. Like trying to sell a Chevrolet to a Ford man. His next suggestion was a Galaxy Nexus. Exactly what I wanted. The full transaction in a semblance of Spanish.
I paid my money and headed home.
It was far more money than I had planned to spend. For another $1,000 (MX), I could have bought a Chinese-made motorcycle at Walmart. But I was happy with the trophy I had bagged.
When I checked my postal box in San Patricio, I discovered my subscription to The Economist finally caught up with me after nine months. Well, it didn’t quite catch up with me.
I finally gave up on trying to get the address straightened out with the subscription department and bought an "introductory" subscription. In the hope that starting anew would get a magazine in my hands.
It worked. And I am now a very happy expatriate. A new telephone. And with my favorite magazine in hand.
Until I find one or the other expired on the patio.
This morning I woke up to find one dead on the floor next to my bed. A telephone, that is. I can only assume it was a suicide or an accident. Perhaps in the same category as Amy Dudley's death.
But things had not been going well for the telephone. It had stopped talking to my new computer about a week ago. (Jealousy, I suspected.)
And during the trip to China, it had decided to discharge its battery sporadically. For no good reason. And a mobile telephone without a battery is not very -- well, mobile.
It was not ever thus. If you had asked me how long I had been using my HTC Touch Diamond (the deceased’s formal name), I would have guessed at least two years.
But I would have been wrong, It has been just over a year. I know that because I rhapsodized poetically (or prosaically) over my new relationship in close calls -- and that was January of 2011.
Dead is dead. And I use a telephone down here not only for communication, but as my Bible reader, to track my finances, and to avoid missing appointments (like I did this week with no reminder).
There was no choice. Off to Manzanillo I went. The only place nearby where I could find the type of Android telephone I wanted. My mother, my brother, and Garry Denness of The Mexile all have Samsung Galaxies. And that was good enough for me.
The clerk showed me an iPhone, but there was no possibility of that purchase. Like trying to sell a Chevrolet to a Ford man. His next suggestion was a Galaxy Nexus. Exactly what I wanted. The full transaction in a semblance of Spanish.
I paid my money and headed home.
It was far more money than I had planned to spend. For another $1,000 (MX), I could have bought a Chinese-made motorcycle at Walmart. But I was happy with the trophy I had bagged.
When I checked my postal box in San Patricio, I discovered my subscription to The Economist finally caught up with me after nine months. Well, it didn’t quite catch up with me.
I finally gave up on trying to get the address straightened out with the subscription department and bought an "introductory" subscription. In the hope that starting anew would get a magazine in my hands.
It worked. And I am now a very happy expatriate. A new telephone. And with my favorite magazine in hand.
Until I find one or the other expired on the patio.
