My love affair with the iPad lasted only a few days before it all went horribly wrong. This is tragic, because I overcame several major planks of my obsessive compulsive disorder and conquered some of my most rampant technological demons in order to walk into that Vodafone shop and say the words: ‘Can I have one of those iPad thingys, please?’
‘iPad 2, or iPad 3?’ said the red-shirted assistant.
Oh, the horror. I didn’t know there was more than one model available at any given time. I had blithely assumed that 3 usurped 2. If it was a choice, lord only knew which one I wanted. I stood there mutely.
‘Do you want the new one?’ said the red shirt, already losing interest and starting to fiddle with his smart phone.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ I said. ‘The new one. Whatever’s the latest. Or, wait, maybe I should get the one that’s smallest. Is one smaller than the other?’
The red shirt looked at me like I was frightening away the proper customers — men with floppy hair wearing Converse trainers and carrying satchels.
I hadn’t felt this out of place since I walked into Woolworths aged ten, with my dad, and tried to buy a cassette tape of Hello, I Must Be Going!
‘Can I have Phil Collins’s new record, please?’ I seem to remember innocently incanting, as my father stood behind me looking at his watch and reminding me I was going to be late for my tennis lesson.
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