Bolton’s finest breadmakers with a tongue-in-cheek take for the smartphone generation.
I’m sitting at the table one morning, hands cradling a warm mug, that rich smell of coffee hanging in the air. The sun is shining down on a brand new day, only the chittering of birds offering their choral backdrop to an otherwise blank canvas. Then a vibration on the windowsill accompanied by a tinny melody. Dad’s calling.
‘The battery in my car key’s dead,’ he tells me, apparently standing in front of his locked car on the car park, desperately pressing the transponder. ‘Can you find the number to call the AA? I can’t get in the car.’
‘Why don’t you just use the key?’
‘Put the key in the lock and turn it.’
‘Oh, does that work?’
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The personal blog of a procrastinator, prevaricator, prattler and prannock.
Mostly musings on language, sundry reviews, and regurgitated links from around the interwebs.