Dear Tim’s iPhone,
Strange times indeed to find myself writing to you, my mobile mate, my phablet friend. I can’t say why, but for a while I have been wanting to write you a letter.
Your memory is better than mine, but I can recall when a phone was a telephone. It was a logical device with cables to help voices reach their intended destination. It had a listening piece and a talking piece to avoid mistakes while guessing where you should place your ear or your mouth. It needed three pennies to make it work when its buttons A and B were pressed as directed. It was located inside a box of red painted timber frames holding panes of shining glass. Also inside this box was a worn directory full of names and numbers, and a musty smell unique to those wonderful places where telephone conversations were private, yet public performances.