Nigel had two days to go until his new iPhone arrived. Two days. Practically a lifetime. By the end of it, he’d aged enough to qualify for a senior discount at the cinema.
He tried to be sensible about it. “It’s just a phone,” he muttered, clutching his old iPhone, which wheezed every time he opened WhatsApp like it had just run a marathon. “Perfectly fine, perfectly functional.”
It immediately froze. He swore it was out of spite.
To pass the time, he attempted British pastimes:
- Made a cup of tea. Then another. Then another. By cup number six, he could see through time.
- Stared at the pre-order page, which said, with all the confidence of a lying politician: Your parcel is being prepared for shipment. prepared from where? Mars?
- Briefly considered leaving a tent outside the front door, “just to be prepared.”
His neighbour popped round. “Waiting for a new phone, are you? Doesn’t seem very British, all this excitement. You should wait calmly, stoically, like we did in the war.”
Nigel nodded gravely, then refreshed the pre-order page under the table.
By day two, he’d named the delivery driver “Sir David of DPD” and rehearsed a whole speech to greet him:
‘My liege, you have restored hope to this weary land.’
And when the great box finally arrives, Nigel promised himself he wouldn’t tear it open like a wild animal.
He lasted three seconds.
This story continues again in the next year pre-order.