Of all the many indignities I have suffered at the hands of my iPhone, the humiliation that sickens me the most is that it has rendered me ungrammatical.
This monstrous device. This vile, evil, vindictive, obstructive, disingenuous, fiendish machine. I hate it. I loathe it more than I had thought it possible to loathe an inanimate object.
For example, I just sent a message to the builder boyfriend saying: ‘Casserole on the oven, can you hear it?’
The BB will come in later, look on the hob for a casserole and, finding none, open himself a tin of soup. He will not look in the oven. And he will not be able to hear the casserole. I’m guessing he won’t even attempt to hear it.
Why should he? Even white van man knows you can’t hear a casserole, hard though that may be for the Remain camp to believe.
And so I will come home tonight and find the oven cold and the casserole cold inside it.
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