VIRTUALLY UNREACHABLE

I've been thinking about writing an ode to my broken phone: a sweeping work of epic loss and tragedy; poetry poured from a heart which is as broken as the screen it carries. Woe! Woe to these fingers which once cradled the delicious curves of the iPhone5s and flicked happily through my Twitter feed; sorrow, all is sorrow, for these eyes which once did scan my inbox, which did skim-read Wikipedia and hath played Tetris on the bus.

You might have gathered from that that the screen is cracked. It's worse than that though, there's something leaking behind the scenes and the display is crisis-crossed with multicoloured horizontal and vertical lines. It grew gradually worse today, steadily slipping into a sort of tartan coma. I can't text anyone without it translating it into gibberish as the touch screen no longer recognises the gentle pressure of my fingertips. I very nearly sent a message about being a KKK ninja when autocorrect kicked in. Really not sure what one of those would be.

So, it's back to the incredibly hot phone shop tomorrow for another round of tropical phone bingo. 5 points if I'm served by a teenager, 10 if they take a patronising sharp intake of breath and 20 if I get out of there without paying any more than I absolutely have to. I'm hoping I can wangle a half decent replacement and (ahem) a protective case.

Meanwhile, I will be virtually unreachable. Except by email. And by carrier pigeon.

Woe is me.

Not really.