thunderstorm in my bathroom

Lordy and good heavens, what is one to do? My phone is broken. The screen is steamed up. Let me take a photo…wait, the phone is mashed. It is an amusing story to be fair, well, I think it is anyway. After the lightning flash across the sky, a deafening clap of crackling thunder as if the opening sequence of Trap Door was in my real, the forty-five degree angled hailstones, er, hailed from the sky and crashed into the balcony decking. Not polystyrene sized hail, iced stones the size of peas. In August. Anyway, after God’s outburst, I had a thunderstorm of my own in the bathroom. Not like that, don’t sink so low Reader, empty your dirty thoughts into this, er, here goldfish bowl. I can see right through you.

Back to the plot, speaking to my best friend regarding matters most significant (her clothes and shoes spending spree in Lewisham, a pretty little top reduced to £3.50 surely that deserves headline news on The Guardian’s front page) – I accidentally touchscreen-failed the call. For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it is a daily occurrence for me, several times a day in fact. It would appear my cheeks are too juicy to handle touchscreen, and they happily press the ‘End Call’ ‘button’ of their own accord until I realise I am speaking to silence, and myself. My cheeks are blatantly too fat for touchscreen interfaces, or the designers of the HTC Desire handset have designed something to be desired less. I am not one to point out faults…

I digress, so I touchscreen-failed the call and waited for her to call me back (if I tried calling her, we would just be screwing the network and reaching each other’s voicemail, futile waste of energy) – so I lay, anticipating her return phonecall whilst simultaneously happening to glance at the time.

My eyes literally popped out of my fat face like, hm, let me think, Daffy Duck, and my skeleton jumped to attention as if Gabriel himself had descended from the grey heavens. My train was in half an hour and I had not showered or packed, or completed any actions of use for the journey ahead. If I had TweetDeck operating at that moment in time on my then-functional phone, the tweet would read #EpicFail (there’s no full stop here purposely). (Now there is, as that makes more sense).

I sprinted to the bathroom like Linford Christie would clatter 100m in the history of my childhood, opened the glass folding screen that protects the floor (by far the worst installation by the Landlord) and I stretched across the length of the bath to turn the shower tap to the ‘ON’ position. Incidentally, I am still in my pyjamas, this detail is latently important later.

As I twisted the piston-shaking chrome nobular, the water hurtled out of the shower head (I realise for some of you this isn’t sounding how it should, I hand you the goldfish bowl – again, I’m so risqué I know, thanks). Anyway, the trick is to get out of the way as quickly as possible as the shower head is facing down so as to remain dry (I do not require additional limescale stains on my bathroom grouting, hard enough to clean as it is) however, in the same moment the water spurted forth its being, my phone slipped from my other hand which was supporting my weight and it smacked against the floor of the bath and dissolved into the trinity before my eyes: handset; battery cover; battery.

The shower infiltrated and covered the elements as if being christened, I saved my life in the process of course which is far more important as no body wants to lie unconscious and drown in the shower, what a way to go! But I was not entirely happy with my hand for letting go of the phone since the back of my head, neck and clothes were thoroughly drenched for the bastardised piece of equipment claiming to be my SMARTphone. If it was smart, surely it would have an automatic drier – like the Dyson Darth Vader appliance in public WCs – on standby for any such mishaps. Imagine Tony the Tiger of Frosties fame: G-r-r-r-eat. But sarcastic. This was me in that moment.

I rushed over to the giant towel hoping the deep purple would embrace the handset components and cuddle the wetness away, just by being purple (healing qualities of this purple are really quite surreal). I wiped away as much of the moisture as I could manage to find, and switched the phone ON. Phew. Sigh of relief and plugged the phone into the charger as it was dying. I realise I could have actually fizzled the phone’s processing unit by doing so, but this strikes me now as I recall the story for you (I call this That, this will make sense shortly). I continue with the plan-for-a-journey process. My sigh of relief was short-lived as when I returned from my shower; the screen flickered all colours of the rainbow as if it had just eaten a magic mushroom (yes, this is That which I realise now). I think to myself the phone needs a blast with the hairdrier, but so does my hair and my train is in forty-five minutes.

You will be pleased to know I successfully boarded the train for once in my life, I sit here now, on its empty carriages writing down the demise of my phone, as it lies helpless, at death’s door in the depth of my handbag. I am quite surprised I have not usurped into madness: I HAVE NO PHONE. Another telling part to this account and also a lesson to never tempt fate, only yesterday evening I tweeted something along the lines of how sad that the world is addicted to their phones, as if they were mini tanks of mobile oxygen. So, it would seem, Lady Luck is testing me. Well, to hell with your test Lady as I am passing with bright magenta hues across the entire spectrum.

Secretly I am hoping there is a spare handset at my parents, which is perhaps why the panic is not so widespread as I really do not have the finances to purchase a brand new spanklingly sparkling handset. I am so stubborn I will not purchase a plastic handset which has the net capabilities of a gnat, but it would seem, this may be the only option to which I am lumbered.

I am more irate with the fact that this is the THIRD item I have broken in as many days: i). Red and mirrored mosaic type Yankee Candle-but-not-candle-Holder, it fell off the worktop all by itself and smashed to saiqareens (my name is not Smith, right?)! on the carpet, and ii). Whilst jamming away the garlic into the cute granite mortar and pestle my mum found for me, the vibrations were too much for my food processor jug to take and it committed suicide by diving four feet from the plate rack resting on the sink and crushed its spout on the ceramic kitchen floor tiles. F-a-n-t-a-s-t-i-c-o.

Not to mention, whilst I am here, breaking my forefinger nail on my right hand whilst pushing the door open which would not ordinarily perturb me, usually water off a duck’s back – they grow back ladies, come on! Except for this time, the nail cracked into the flesh underneath my nail line and therefore I am unable to trim it for either comfortability or appearance factors.

It would appear that I am Bionic Woman. I thought fasting was supposed to make you feeble and weak. Oh how apt. Well done Lady, Tinie Tempah and Pass Out are now playing on my iPod. I am now waiting to alight the train and slip on the platform breaking my neck at my destination.

Over and out.

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