CHRIS BENNETT took advantage of a recent trip to
I WAS in the Shelly Centre a week or so ago and I saw a woman with a bird on her shoulder. Some people have chips, some people have birds.
As I walked behind her I thought of the many reasons why this good woman was wearing a piece of bolt-on ornithological fashion wear.
Obviously she liked the thing; furthermore, she must have liked it quite a lot as the two of them were deep in conversation.
I tried to lock in to the gist of the conversation, which seemed to be conducted in flawless Afrikaans. I didn’t get very far, which is probably a good thing because I am not a happy eavesdropper.
At this point the bird decided that it was a happy eavesdropper and proved the point by dropping a colourful assortment of eaves down the good woman’s back. It quite complemented her purple coat.
When we reached an intersection in the mall my new found companions, happy in their cloud of unknowing, went on their way, leaving me to wonder and surmise.
Quite shortly after this I realised what it was that the lady was actually wearing. It was an external hard drive. I knew this because I had bought one on a recent visit to
I consider myself to be reasonably computer literate. Mine has even taught me to type properly, although I still hanker after the good old days of the newsroom when all my colleagues and I typed in the time- honoured search and thump, three- or four-finger method, which was considered way above the level of the juniors and their search and peck two-fingered endeavours.
Unpacking the new toy, which has a memory large enough to store the entire collective experiences of mankind since about the time of the woolly mammoth, was, as it always is these days, a challenge in itself.
Having read all the little books that came with it, several of which almost made sense; having struggled a little to remove the plastic wrap from the thing’s velvet pyjamas (for travelling, of course), I was finally confronted with awesome reality itself; it was looking at me from the security and comfort of its little plastic cot.
I set about removing it. The sumptuous box in which all this paraphernalia arrived on my desk bore the legend Racing Inspired Design, complete with a chequered flag on the front of said box.
The extra-durable dampening outer shell, along with the racing inspired design, had left me full of admiration for its maker’s ingenuity. What did not leave me in admiration of their ingenuity was the fact that the thing was so beautifully fitted into its plastic cot that it could not, quite clearly, be removed.
Well that should save on wear and tear.
Having pondered such excesses as a kitchen knife, at which my very being flinched like a startled mustang, I finally turned the plastic container over and gave it a gentle thump. The device landed on my lap; it looked rather smug.
I eventually realised that this thing had become my computer’s clone, and it is an awful lot easier to cart around than the laptop. Fiendishly clever, that’s what these oriental chaps are.
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