I was shocked and saddened to read the news that Nicholas Parsons had died today.
I was listening to Just A Minute only this morning, as I drove in to work.
At 96, perhaps his passing shouldn’t have surprised me so, but like the late, great Humphrey Littleton, it felt like he would go on forever.
And with Terry Jones going last week, the Grim Reaper’s 2020 Celebrity Calendar is already off to a good start.
I have warned Mrs Masher many, many times about playing Candy Crush in the bath.
And so, when I couldn’t get hold of her on her phone the other day, it was with some sheepishness that she later told me she had dropped it in the bath.
It was very difficult for me to hold back from saying “I told you so”.
So, I didn’t hold back.
To make things worse, it wasn’t even her two year-old phone that she had dropped: it was the brand new one that I bought her for Christmas.
Less than a month old and it’s knackered!
A few days in the airing cupboard got it to the point where it would (sometimes) switch on again, but it won’t go past the boot-up screen – which is pretty much unreadable on the display.
No combination of soft/hard/factory resets has any beneficial effects.
Just like Monty Python’s parrot, it’s dead.
Bereft of life, it rests in peace.
It has ceased to be.
It’s Mrs M’s birthday next month, so a new phone may be on the cards.
A bloody waterproof one.