It was 4 a.m. and a crisis was brewing.
I knew that this time, I’d be a nincompoop if I tried to deal with the situation myself, as I’d faced spectacular failures recently with the poop bit.
I was still groggy from having taken diazepam to deal with my now screaming right arm. Somehow, I had screwed up and hadn’t put my phone in my shoulder bag properly (the bag is indispensable for essential medications and other things), and it ended up on the floor. In my present state, it might as well have landed on the far side of the moon. Not the dark side, you Pink Floyd Neolithic Dark Agers!
It was worth a try.
By Carruthers (this phrase was used in old black-and-white British comedy movies of my youth and is completely untraceable on today’s internet), it actually worked! (OK, obviously not if my phone was on the moon, as sound abhors a vacuum.)
“Hey, Siri, phone Jane.”
“Which phone number for Jane Davies, mobile or home?”
“Calling Jane Davies mobile,” Siri clipped, in her sonorous, mechanical voice.
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