My Phone thinks it’s Italian by Martin Tibbetts

My Phone thinks it’s Italian The best that Argos could provide.. It winked at me from the catalogue The start of a new relationship. Proud blue Flexing a matching handset By at least a metre I talked to it. Gave it pride of place Wall mounted With bold brass screws. No self respecting phone Relishes the horizontal position Only to be buried under teacher’s papers And the resting place of coffee cups. But my phone thinks it’s Italian. During the night it somersaulted, it turned, it curled Its umbilical metre reduced to Centimetres of twisted spaghetti Relationships take time I thought. I talked of Florence and Rome Left my best picture of Italian Lakes (To avoid home sickness) And unravelled the lead. But my phone thinks it’s Italian During the day It somersaulted, it turned, it curled Its umbilical metre reduced to Centimetres of twisted spaghetti This time a serious word was needed I talked at length into its handset In its native language We agreed a compromise Half a metre would suffice But my phone thinks it’s Italian. During the night it somersaulted, it turned, it curled It’s umbilical metre reduced to Centimetres of twisted spaghetti That was the day I bought my Italian cookbook Pictures of pasta Mediterranean delights Designed to re-assure My displaced blue friend Even a picture of the Pope For company. But my phone thinks it’s Italian During the day It somersaulted, it turned, it curled Its umbilical metre reduced to Centimetres of twisted spaghetti Maybe it wants to Keep me company in the car I changed my VW For a sporty Fiat Showed it the new wheels On the drive Its new home. But my phone thinks it’s Italian. During the night it somersaulted, it turned, it curled Its umbilical metre reduced to Centimetres of twisted spaghetti 6.30 am My blue friend speaks A call. Half awake and blundering I trip over my office chair To grab at the showing centimetres. Bruised and hurt. That’s it! I can go chord-less Pasta free! Final warning! And the end of the relationship Argos beckons! But my phone thinks it’s Italian During the day It somersaulted, it turned, it curled Its umbilical metre reduced to Centimetres of twisted spaghetti Maybe it is offended by Euro sceptical views Maybe it’s waiting for a referendum. I re-assure it That I am more European Than English All I want is a compromise. But compromises need Bargaining positions. I return with an Argos branded BT handset Free from wires And twists of character. But my phone thinks it’s Italian. During the night it somersaulted, it turned, it curled Its umbilical metre reduced to Centimetres of twisted spaghetti However, hands-free Means a life dedicated to Batteries. Batteries cost. Batteries need charging Batteries go flat. They buzz at key moments. So I’m stuck with my blue friend Who thinks he’s Italian And still Somersaults, turns and curls Reducing an umbilical metre to centimetres. Martin Tibbetts Wednesday, 13 June 2001