Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Like John Valuk, Ol’ Robbo’s iPhone is dead.  It fell on its head. ***

Mrs. R duly took the remains into the Verizon store a couple days ago.  “Want a new one? 500 jimmy o’ goblins.”

So she went to the Apple store a couple spots down in the mall.  “Oh, the battery’s gone all ‘spoldy.  50 bucks to replace and we’ll give you a new phone to go round it.”

I’m not complaining, but I simply do not understand these things.

And speaking of incomprehension, my phone was Mrs. R’s old hand-me-down iPhone 7  (UPDATE: Actually, I’m told it’s a 5), which the family forced on me when they took away my old Motorola flip-phone.****  Admittedly, over the years I’ve got used to using it for checking emails, texting, and taking the odd photograph.  When Mrs. R explained to the Verizon guy that I just wanted a replacement, not an upgrade, he was positively gob-smacked.


** Classical reference in the headline.

*** If you don’t get this, you’ll never be a Hong Kong Cavalier.

**** Which remains a great mystery to me, considering that most of my incoming calls and now texts over the years have been from Mrs. R during my evening commute and have had to do with the picking up of various items from the store or various childs from this or that outing.  Between a stick-shift and my need for reading glasses, while I could easily answer my flip-phone en route, dealing with the iPhone is out of the question until I come to rest.  To this day, I don’t think she gets this.