Around on Wednesday morning I awoke with a start as I realised I was dead. I switched on my bedside lamp. Being dead and lying in the dark felt infinitely worse than being dead and bathed in light.
“You are dead,” I told myself.
“I am alive,” I argued.
“Prove it!” I demanded.
I picked up my new mobile phone and switched it on. My old phone, dating from 2002 and therefore practically prehistoric could no longer be turned on other than by the expedient of inserting a small metal letter opener into the slot where the broken on-switch should have been. Could the Dead switch on mobile phones, I reasoned?
It might have been more impressive had I been able to effect a resurrection of my old mobile from its inert state. Annoyingly I was told at the shop that I could not retrieve my friends’ phone numbers as they were held on the phone itself and not the sim card. Apparently this meant they could not be accessed and transferred across to the new phone unless the old phone could be switched on too. Thank heavens for e-mail. I was able to warn friends that although I had retained my old number I no longer knew theirs.
Eventually I conceded that I might not be dead after all and went back to a fitful sleep. I was still mulling over the incident several days later. What did it all signify? It finally dawned on me that I ought not listen to radio adaptations of Bram Stoker’s Dracula last thing at night, even if the celebrated author does share a birthday with me.