Acts of selfie preservation
ARE we over the selfie phenomenon yet? Please say yes. Friends put pictures of their little ones in merry Christmas costumes on Facebook over the holidays and called them “elfies”, which was great fun. Selfie sticks are not. I have just had my first encounter with one of these ridiculous advices. It popped up in front of me last weekend out of the audience at the Symphony in the Domain, part of the Sydney Festival. It looked like some sort of periscope or long-necked sci-fi creature sticking its noggin out of a bog.
Its owner posed and primped and swung her hair into fetching waves, apparently oblivious to the presence on stage of the impeccable Sydney Symphony Orchestra and William Barton, didgeridoo player par excellence. My view was impeded, I was distracted, she was more interested in pouting than watching the orchestra. What was the point?
The Go-Pro sports camera? Do not get me started on these contrivances, which whoosh up at you in the waves at the beach with the speed of a shark.
I am also madly annoyed by that whistling sound that some phones make (Samsung Galaxy?) when messages come in. It sounds so like someone really whistling and is most disconcerting when, say, a plane has landed and everyone reaches for their phones and an eerie chorus erupts. Mine goes tweet, tweet, like a canary gone batty, which is bad enough, and a colleague had one with a duck tone until we forced him to change it as we were all blinking well going quackers. I am still devoted to my Moleskine notebook with ribbon page-keeper and my trusty German-made Stabilo pen. Although I sometimes wish that said writing instrument came with a bit of gadgetry up its rubber-encased sleeve.
I saw a preview of Kingsman: The Secret Service a few days ago and best thing about it (aside from the alwaysreliable Colin Firth, ever Mr Darcy in wet blouson shirt to me) was the tremendous amount of James Bond-inspired wizardry, from super-spy watches (Bremont, I believe) that fire sleep darts to immaculately laced Oxford shoes shooting out poisoned neurotoxin blades (a flashback to From Russia with Love, surely). There were even ammunition-firing black umbrellas.
Fashion label Mr Porter has brought out a Kings manthemed men’s fashion line, including the dapper likes of a blue velvet smoking jacket with silk-grosgrain shawl collar and black watch tartan tie. None of the clothing is bullet-proof, however, and the line’s Conway Stewart fountain pen (ours for the equivalent of about $1200) cannot be remote-activated to fire poison, which is really just as well, given I am on the verge of snapping.
I am also annoyed by that whistling sound some phones make