“The iPhone is a piece of shit. I never got sucked into that hype. Never. It would never work for me. I would go crazy if my fingertips couldn’t feel the keyboard. No brother, I have always been a Blackberry man. A loyalist you could even call me. Three Blackberry Pearls is what I used to pack. Back in 2007, when I was at Gieves and Hawkes for a fitting, I ordered them to provide me with four mobile phone pockets. Two on each side. They stared at me like I was mad. Well screw those Saville Row cocks! So what if their royal clientele had never asked for that! Never did use the fourth pocket though. But my suits used to be cocked and loaded with my three Pearls. It has all gone to shit now, but I still do love my Torch. Using its keyboard still gives me a feeling of control. Of power. The whole world may have gone mad for those shit phones but they will have to pry my fingers off this Blackberry before I give it up.”
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The taxi had driven past a sprawling hospital en route to the bistro. Was that the one, he wondered. With the framed painting in the waiting room. Of Bradman pulling to midwicket; crinkled visage of authoritative satisfaction in oil paint. The doctor had been efficient and effusive. Proceeded to embarrass him by asking for an autograph. The cast had been pristine white. Perhaps I should get the gracious doctor to autograph it, he had thought. Signed and sealed for the trip home.
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