I realised the other day, while walking down the street, that I’ve become a M.O.B. (Miserable Old Bar-Steward). A group of teenagers sat in the sunshine and all were using their smartphones. “Huh!” I said to myself (muttering in public being one of the early symptoms), “I bet they’re ‘talking’ to each other!” I continued my slow journey to the library muttering about “the youth of today!” Later on I recognized with horror that I had turned into my father. It’s time I was put out to pasture…
Oh! The joys of a mobile phone,
(Or whatever they’re called now!)
We must be in touch all of the time,
At home or on the plough!
Whatever did we do in olden days,
A phone box did we seek?
Didn’t care about connectivity,
And sulk in a fit of pique!
Do you remember talking,
When you went out for a meal?
Brains were used instead of Google,
Today crosswords are hardly real!
Groups of teenagers snap-chatting away,
(To the ones they’re standing beside!)
Leaves you wondering where it will end,
If conversation has finally died!
© Baldock Bard 2015
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Just before New Year I was shopping with my 2yo granddaughter. Something caught her eye and as usual I was in trouble for being slow to respond! As an ‘Inlander’ my knowledge of fish is less than my understanding of the ancient tribe of nomads that used to wander the ‘Great Plains of Baldock’. So I answered by making up “The Fishy Song”. At this point she rolled her eyes to the ceiling and muttered something about my obvious silliness. Sung to the tune of ‘How much is that doggy in the window!’…
