A Christmas story

Scene 1 - Shortly before Christmas. A small cottage in Long Marston.

Me: Ma, can I have your new glowy Kindle Paperwhite that a man you don't even like gave you  if you don't ever use it because you can't figure out how it works?

Ma: Yes of course.

NB: (This has happened on every occasion when my ma has been the recipient of anything even slightly technological. Every single occasion. So I wasn't being an acquisitive bitch. Well, I was but it was OK. Look, it's my MOTHER, ok? That's what she's for. Shut up.)

Cut to/

Scene 2 - Shortly after Christmas. A small, arse-clenchingly freezing flat in York

Me [sad voice]: Oh. So you've got the hang of it then?

Ma [nonchalantly]: Of course Debbie. I'm not stupid you know.

Me [thought]: She's never off the damn thing. Searching and downloading and reading and using it in all its glowing touchscreen glory.

I go back to my first gen and try and pretend it doesn't matter.

But I weep inside. It doesn't even have, gulp, touchscreen. Sometimes I find myself uselessly jabbing at it, confusion reigning in my breast. And then. Then I remember.

It's a Christmas tragedy.

Suck on that Dickens.