As I sat down to dinner in a lovely old country pub my reservation was cancelled by my iPhone, which was having a tantrum.
The owner of this restaurant was serving us with a smile, we had been shown to our table, drinks and menus had been brought. But the buzzing lump of metal in my bag was adamant this was not happening.
My iPhone had packaged up a montage surprise, complete with a replay of our private conversation
I was experiencing one of those moments where reality splits into two: the one you are experiencing and the one your phone claims you...
Disagree with half of it, enjoy reading all of it
TRY A MONTH FREE
Our magazine articles are for subscribers only. Try a month of Britain’s best writing, absolutely free.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate, free for a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first month free.
UNLOCK ACCESS Try a month freeAlready a subscriber? Log in