Hi – Friday last; dentist’s waiting room for half an hour – read the one and only dog-eared golf mag and a tired old Geographic – almost fell asleep. The chair was deep and warmth from the gas fire unavoidable. Diagonally across the room, a young woman dipped inside her bag and unleashed her mobile phone. Her shoulders drooped, mouth fell open and with that faraway look of the opium addict she energised her thumb.
Never in all my life have I seen a thumb move so independently of its stable mates. Like a digit possessed it flew at all angles, racing over the touch-pad, until the ‘send’ button was stabbed and a message about whatever winged its way through the ether. I pictured the same, though not so young lady thirty years on; thumb past its ‘best before’ date, wrapped in cartoon, crepe bandage – bunny-ears and safety pin, joint totally shot with arthritis and repetitive strain stuff. Beats me how the world managed without mobile phones. Beats me even more when I try to comprehend this cool, obsessive need to talk with your thumb... Hello thumb two, this is thumb one, do you read?
Maybe there’s more to this thumb-talk than I realise, maybe I should give it a go and join the droves of cool thumb-talkers; maybe thumb-one’s thumb would talk back and we could spend thumb quality time together, stabbing at text buttons.
Gotta go – my phone’s beeping...
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