Poor Tom.
Once the proud owner of a circa 1998 mobile phone.
It had seen him through thick and thin, creative drought and copy fertility.
Bringer of messages both happy and sad.
Texter of messages both blunt and cryptic.
Held together by sellotape and affection.
But now it's dead.
Gone.
Karked it.
Brown bread.
And in a fittingly formal ceremony, Tom read out an emotive eulogy to a gathered audience of people who really had nothing better to do that sunny afternoon.
And then, it was buried in our delightful garden, next to the remains of the chipmunk and Craig's treasure chest of mucky mags.
So, if you pop by and take some rays in our garden, be sure to pay your respects.
And give Tom a hug.
But don't expect a call from him anytime soon.
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