Fab Friend has contacted me from Peru… she commented on this very blog to say hello and that she was having a lovely time (see Holiday!). I was very pleased to hear from her as she seems, and is, very far away.
But, when my Pinkberry flashed up an alert with her note, it could have been as though she was just around the corner from me, in her lovely London flat.
The internet is great like that – no more echoey (ugly word!) phone lines across the Seven Seas telling us she had arrived safely. Instead, a Facebook status update and a Peruvian hit on my blog visitor counter!
On the bus this morning, I was confined to the ground floor because my Parisian suitcase is extremely heavy – it is stuffed to the brim with Golden Syrup, chocolate raisins and crumpets galore – and I find that being stuck down there does not allow for creative thought or writing, so I let my mind wander.
I began to think, as my Pinkberry buzzed through a pointless email, what it would be like if I went on one of those budget TV shows where you have to give up something that really matters. You know the ones I’m talking about!
I once watched one where a Z-list pop star had to give up make-up for a week… once she’d scraped and steamed it all off, it was quite plain to see why she wore so much in the first place. Natural beauty had not graced her face – I considered sending a trowel and some industrial wall filler to her agent.
Anyway, I think those nasty TV peeps would deafinitely make me give up electronic communication – either that or salad and baked beans for tea, but let’s be honest here, the latter would not make riveting viewing.
That would mean: no mobile – so no texting, and no computer – so no email, Google, online booking, and internet in general. In short, I would be screwed!
I would start my day sleeping through, as my mobile is my back-up vibrating alarm clock. Then I would be in trouble at work as couldn’t phone to say I was going to be late. Then I would spend the whole day getting everything wrong, as without computers, everything would have to be done on that beastly telephone.
I would cry, scream, shout and stamp and probably spend the next 20 years cringing over my cornflakes about my shocking TV debut.
Thankfully, this will never happen, so I’m off to Google the Parisian weather forecast and email my Pa as he’s been poorly.
Au revoir et grosse bises!
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