December 27, 2011 § 23 Comments
I keep wanting to hit my Blackberry, a bit in the way people do in films to someone who has fainted, to awaken them. My Blackberry is as good as dead, though occasionally I detect that it pulses still, its reception bars going up and down a bit here and there, but it never beeps or sings or vibrates or farts or goes in for any of its more active signs of life. Everyone has hunkered down with their family and beneath the sheer weight of brightly coloured boxes. Or, if the papers are to be believed, they are all out shopping for hideous, fuck-off handbags that have been cut down from £576,321 to £19.99. Whatever they are doing, they ain’t calling or emailing me.
There was something called something like WorldStores yesterday that assured me they were emailing me because I had bought something from them. Looking at the type of shit sofas they were spamming me with, I found this highly doubtful, and became gloomy about the fact that it was to this which I have been reduced. Spam and nothing else. If in between the spam there was the odd, disappointingly nutty missive from a living, breathing SFAR that would be something. But no such disappointment even, just a comatose Blackberry, and not a single plan from here to eternity.
As you can probably guess, the Matthew Crawley glow lasted about as long as one of those luminous necklaces you get at festivals.
Today I feel fat but empty, obese yet flat.
Not, it has to be said, the finest of combinations.