As a dedicated fan of smartphones, I try to keep an eye on what the most popular handsets are and the types who use them. Like Superman’s geeky brother, I seem to have a sixth sense as to when and where someone is going to reach into their jacket pocket. The skill comes in spotting a businessman whose phone is set to vibrate.
Just as in poker, everyone has a ‘tell’. For some it’s a momentary skyward glance, or a look of panic flashing across the face. Some people fall silent, eyes narrowing as they scan their surroundings like lone soldiers in a Vietnam movie, before stealthily answering their BlackBerry in the manner of a secret agent, rather than an IT consultant from Milton Keynes. There are several other categories I’ve invented besides the ‘Bond’ reaction, such as ‘Laxative Panic’ and ‘Tarzan Chest’ but I won’t give away all my secrets here.
Not too long ago, whilst fighting the continual battle against bulimia at Carluccio’s in Terminal 5 (which, incidentally, at just over 18 stone, I’m winning), my phone nose twitched. In the few seconds one gets to guess the handset, I froze: he didn’t fit any stereotype, and, though it was before dawn, I knew failing here would ruin my day. The guy was in his early 50s, lanky but not ridiculously lofty, and very ginger. I was erring towards the ‘Grenade without Pin’ stereotype, given his look of terror, thus suggesting a Motorola RAZR or some such ‘style-over-function’ phone, and then he whipped it out. It was gunmetal grey, very thin, and clearly of the clam design. I was about to congratulate myself when I realised something was very wrong.
People of that age tend to be far-sighted; they hold the phone at arm’s length to read the screen, but he had it centimetres from his nose. Judging by the way he reached into his pocket, he was left handed, yet he held the device in his right hand. Despite looking like a serious businessman with confident body language and bushy eyebrows, he was drinking herbal tea. At 6am. On closer inspection, he was reading Public. Thus he was a civil servant.
Then I finally saw the light. It dazzled me, a reflection from the powerful ceiling lights no doubt. It was a pocket mirror, a compact no less. My head spun as it struggled to find the logic: was he a drag queen? Was he trying to cover up some monstrous scar? Had he accidentally picked up his wife’s compact? Should I warn security? And, rather more worryingly, can one claim compacts on expenses? Take note of your weaknesses in order to stay strong; my green kryptonite is lanky, left-handed civil servants of the ginger persuasion.
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