the JesusPhone as if drawn to it by a powerful geas. “How much?” (That’s the only question that matters, you see: I’ve already memorized its specifications.)
“The 64Gb model, sir? On an eighteen-month contract—”
The JesusPhone, I swear it is smiling at me: Come to me, come to me and be saved . The luscious curves, the polished glissade of the icons in the multi-touch interface— whoever designed that thing is an intuitive illusionist, I realize fuzzily as my fingertip closes in on the screen: That’s at least a class five glamour .
The next thing I think is, I shouldn’t have let myself get so close . But by then I’m on my way out of the store, clutching a carrier bag and a receipt that says I’ve put a dent in my bank balance big enough that Mo’s going to have something new to swear about this month, to the benefit of Apple’s shareholders.
I slink home with my metaphorical tail between my legs, clutching my shiny new JesusPhone like a consolation prize for my lack of a real life.
IT IS 4 P.M., THE COOL RAINS HAVE BROUGHT THEIR GURGLING freight of water to the overflowing gutter above the kitchen window, and I am sitting at the table with a laptop and a freshly jailbroken JesusPhone when the doorbell chimes.
(You didn’t expect me not to jailbreak an iPhone so I can run unsigned applications on it, did you? That would be no fun at all!)
I get up and slouch towards the front porch.
“Surprise party!” It’s a pair of familiar faces. Pinky is holding the umbrella while Brains hefts a pair of beer casks at me.
I take a step back. “Hey, what’s the big deal?”
“Beware of geeks bearing beer.” Pinky cocks his head and looks at me madly as Brains makes a beeline for the kitchen and clears some counter space. “We heard about the whoopsie and figured you might want some company.”
Pinky and Brains: the (ex-)flatmates from heck, if not hell. I used to share a house with them, back in the days when I was still seeing Mhari. They’re a matched couple of geeks, working for Technical Support these days (Gizmos department, Dirty Tricks directorate). Brains does the hardware, Pinky does human factors and delivery flourishes, and both of them do the Pride march around Regent’s Park every summer even though they don’t need to be publicly out to maintain their security clearances these days.
A voice calls from the kitchen, “Hey, who let that thing in here?”
I go back inside hastily. “It’s mine. As of this afternoon.”
“Mine, precioussss .” Brains is bending over my new phone. “Jailbroken it yet? I’ve been doing some evaluation work on these too, they look promising . . .”
“Don’t be silly.” I peer at the beer casks. He’s lined them up next to the sink. “Hey, that’s not nitro pressurized.”
“That’s right; they’re cask-conditioned!” Brains says proudly. “Normally you have to leave them twenty-four hours to drop bright after you tap them, but with this ”—he produces a home-brew box of electronics from one waterproof pocket—“you can cut the wait to sixty minutes.”
“What is it?” I pause. “If it’s a temporal multiplexer I’ve got to warn you, last time we had one in here Mo had to beat the fridge contents to death with a cricket bat—she was most annoyed—”
“Nope, it’s ultrasonic.” He switches it on as he plants it on top of the first cask, and I feel my jaw muscles clench. Ultrasonic it may be, but it’s got some low frequency harmonics that remind me unpleasantly of a mosquito the size of a Boeing 737.
“Switch it off, please.”
Pinky is doing something bizarre to the umbrella, turning it inside out through its own center—I do a double take: Is that really a Möbius strip umbrella? —and it vanishes, except for a stubby handle, which he hangs on the inside doorknob. I blink. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Iris said you could do with some company,” Brains says blandly as my phone chirps and does
“The 64Gb model, sir? On an eighteen-month contract—”
The JesusPhone, I swear it is smiling at me: Come to me, come to me and be saved . The luscious curves, the polished glissade of the icons in the multi-touch interface— whoever designed that thing is an intuitive illusionist, I realize fuzzily as my fingertip closes in on the screen: That’s at least a class five glamour .
The next thing I think is, I shouldn’t have let myself get so close . But by then I’m on my way out of the store, clutching a carrier bag and a receipt that says I’ve put a dent in my bank balance big enough that Mo’s going to have something new to swear about this month, to the benefit of Apple’s shareholders.
I slink home with my metaphorical tail between my legs, clutching my shiny new JesusPhone like a consolation prize for my lack of a real life.
IT IS 4 P.M., THE COOL RAINS HAVE BROUGHT THEIR GURGLING freight of water to the overflowing gutter above the kitchen window, and I am sitting at the table with a laptop and a freshly jailbroken JesusPhone when the doorbell chimes.
(You didn’t expect me not to jailbreak an iPhone so I can run unsigned applications on it, did you? That would be no fun at all!)
I get up and slouch towards the front porch.
“Surprise party!” It’s a pair of familiar faces. Pinky is holding the umbrella while Brains hefts a pair of beer casks at me.
I take a step back. “Hey, what’s the big deal?”
“Beware of geeks bearing beer.” Pinky cocks his head and looks at me madly as Brains makes a beeline for the kitchen and clears some counter space. “We heard about the whoopsie and figured you might want some company.”
Pinky and Brains: the (ex-)flatmates from heck, if not hell. I used to share a house with them, back in the days when I was still seeing Mhari. They’re a matched couple of geeks, working for Technical Support these days (Gizmos department, Dirty Tricks directorate). Brains does the hardware, Pinky does human factors and delivery flourishes, and both of them do the Pride march around Regent’s Park every summer even though they don’t need to be publicly out to maintain their security clearances these days.
A voice calls from the kitchen, “Hey, who let that thing in here?”
I go back inside hastily. “It’s mine. As of this afternoon.”
“Mine, precioussss .” Brains is bending over my new phone. “Jailbroken it yet? I’ve been doing some evaluation work on these too, they look promising . . .”
“Don’t be silly.” I peer at the beer casks. He’s lined them up next to the sink. “Hey, that’s not nitro pressurized.”
“That’s right; they’re cask-conditioned!” Brains says proudly. “Normally you have to leave them twenty-four hours to drop bright after you tap them, but with this ”—he produces a home-brew box of electronics from one waterproof pocket—“you can cut the wait to sixty minutes.”
“What is it?” I pause. “If it’s a temporal multiplexer I’ve got to warn you, last time we had one in here Mo had to beat the fridge contents to death with a cricket bat—she was most annoyed—”
“Nope, it’s ultrasonic.” He switches it on as he plants it on top of the first cask, and I feel my jaw muscles clench. Ultrasonic it may be, but it’s got some low frequency harmonics that remind me unpleasantly of a mosquito the size of a Boeing 737.
“Switch it off, please.”
Pinky is doing something bizarre to the umbrella, turning it inside out through its own center—I do a double take: Is that really a Möbius strip umbrella? —and it vanishes, except for a stubby handle, which he hangs on the inside doorknob. I blink. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Iris said you could do with some company,” Brains says blandly as my phone chirps and does
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