Last year my old cellphone’s charger broke and – since the phone was so old – could not be replaced, no matter where I looked, so I bought a Galaxy S3.
The S3 has more functions than I know how to use or need, and it’s been very reliable. It even gets good signals inside my house, which is a big deal since there aren’t enough cell towers in Princeton.
It’s been a year and now my service provider is sending me emails with tempting “free” phone upgrades, while the Samsung people simultaneously updated the phone.
From the moment I bought it, the phone has been whistling every time I receive a text, sometimes necessitating an explanation on my part, like the time I was in the middle of a doctor’s appointment and the nurse blushed when she heard the whistle.
I named her Gladys.
Nothing much gets past Gladys.
Not only does she pop up to announce how many new emails are there, she sometimes pipes in to make other announcements.
And heaven farfend if you don’t pay attention to her when she wakes you up. Her assertive “Alarm: It is seven o’clock AM” can not be ignored, much less if you let five minutes go by. She’ll nag you every five minutes until you do something.
I wouldn’t mind it so much if they had used a male voice. It would be much nicer to wake up to, say, the voice of Patrick Stewart or Colin Firth, even if they popped up at inconvenient times.
My Garmin (also old) gives you a choice of voices, and I changed the bossy woman voice it came with to a polite, English-accented male voice that reminded me of C-3PO.
I named him Anthony.
Blogging on more serious matters will resume shortly.