This is my computer and it’s such a proper computer that it’s just referred to as my ‘computer’. It has the latest in reel-to-reel technology and as previously described whilst I do have the interweb then his name is Paul, and he does so on a bike. My computer is good for typing and for causing dry ice to bob about the suggestion of a Minuteman missile it’s all Top Man and Chelsea Girl. What it does not do is lap dance. Nor does it get me excited. We’ve been given permission to leave Tolly Maw tomorrow, for a wedding. There I will meet a lot of people I will never meet again and they will whilst treating their erections like the tiller of an idling canal boat get very excited about their walky phones.
I don’t have a walky phone. I certainly don’t have one with a stabby screen. I’ve got hobbits that want me to, eager hobbits in roll-necks so frankly there’s no chance. But there will be people and they will want to discuss their phones with me.
Phones. Say it five times and it’s The Fonz, which is barely even a little better. But aye and as I say, what my computer does not do is lap dance. So if there’s nothing much here for a day and a wet bit, you’ll know why. Because my computer in sensibly armoured underthings does not need to titillate nor will I cast it away on the morrow.
I know what my computer will be doing. Can you say the same for yours?
Your cheeky minx in her suave Parisian Mac.