My husband looks at me.
Clearly my plight isn't of much interest to him.
Clearly this was not the pathopoeia it was intended to be.
I plead with my eyes and hope that he'll understand.
He nods fraudulently and
leaves the room. His footsteps tell me
that my impassioned speech did no good.
He is too young and too new to understand.
I love him despite this, despite his horrific shortcomings.
Because of this: he returns, a better smile on his face.
He looks me in the eye and grins
like an overexcited animal. It's endearing.
He whispers something to me.
My husband has bought me the ebook.
He hands me his Kindle and I want to scream.
Hang on, let me justify myself before the witchhunt begins.
A lot of my friends own Kindles(other e-readers are available).
They rather like them.
It's lighter than a book, they say.
It's cheaper buying the books, they say.
It's so handy, it's so dandy, so they say.
But I just can't get on board.
Maybe technology makes for a better world
or maybe we're just more advanced now.
But to me
those digital stories are missing one precious thing:
where are their paper souls?
What's wrong with a good old fashioned book?
And those stories are always being used, these online things,
someone's always reading them.
It's all so easy and quick and cheap,
sounds a little slutty to me.
I quite like manually turning the page;
it makes me feel like my actions directly impact upon the flow of the story.
Perhaps that's silly.
And perhaps I am.
But this brave new world of ours
strikes me as a computerised copycat of the past
and occasionally a shambolic reimagining of an old classic.
Let's yearn for the good old days
(so says a mum too young to remember them)
where there were no phones
or fancy gadgets latched onto cars
or motion sensors or finger-print-locks.
So let's take five minutes
under the glare of the desk lamp,
dancing to the ticking of the electronic clock.
Oh, those were the days, weren't they?