By Adam Capelin
On 22 June, 9:35am, Mum sent us a text message that for some strange fault in technology forgot that it was sent and received and read. Message transmission successful. End of message right? Wrong. Instead of finishing it’s logical existance from phone sender to phone receiver, this message has decided to continue living in the global microwave and satallite transmission ether. Like a virus, this message has started reproducing itself, demanding attention like a hyperactive child with attention deficiency disorder. Look at me, look at me. look at me. At first we guessed Mum had simply forgotton to lock her keypad and the phone was bouncing around in her handbag or something. But five days later we’re still receiving the same message and we’re starting to wonder what the hell Mum is doing running around with her handbag 24hrs a day. Is she attempting a Guinness book of records shop-a-thon, or did she leave her phone on a non-stop freight train accross the Nullabour?
I think we’ve re-read the same message almost 50 times. It’s become like a familar line from a famous poem. Everytime Keira’s phone beeps a message alert, I can read the words burned into the screen; “Great to hear you arrived safely. Take lots of care – love you heaps. Will buy a webcam this week. Can we help with tax any way? X mum”
It’s just the kind of message you can depend upon from Mum. A subtle hint about doing you tax return under the guise of motherly love. And with the volume of repetition, its like a well rehersed parrot – nagging me incessantly. Well, I’ve done my tax return now and we’re staying out of trouble, so I guess you can stop sending that same message. Hang on – I just got a message… Guess what, it’s from Mum…