My telephone is just like the daemons from His Darkish Supplies: a part of the soul hooked up by an invisible golden wire that when stretched too far hurts. It’s my get-out clause. My excuse to depart a social state of affairs when all of it will get a bit an excessive amount of. Who hasn’t picked up their telephone as soon as and gone, “Oh, crap, my mum’s calling me”, to get out of a dodgy date? It was we’d come out for a fag, however these days are seemingly on the wane, too. One buddy, let’s name her Beth, even has an alarm set for each Tinder date she goes on simply in case they’re a flop and he or she must leg it into an Uber. Telephones are the Good Samaritans of dates gone mistaken.
