Shoot me, not my phone

Oh, I love this one - a bulletproof iPhone case. No, really. A Japanese company advertises it thus -

The hardest, heaviest, strongest iPhone case in the entire world. Designed to withstand a direct hit from a 50 calibre (12.7mm) shell, so you can rest assured knowing your iPhone is safe.

It is unclear to me why someone would want to shoot my phone instead of me. Is the iPhone that bad? Either this product is targeted at toughies/high-profile people who have terribly incompetent marksmen enemies out to get them, or at teenagers who risk being parted from their beloved perpetually-glued-to-the-ear phone in a rather dramatic fashion by their irate parents.

The manufacturers do not mince their words about the cumbersome nature of this case either. They warn you -

This case is the heaviest iPhone case in the world. Hold it in both hands when talking on the phone.
This case is so hard it will probably scratch any table you set it on. Carry a small cloth with you and set the case on top of that.

I was considering buying an iPhone and then buying this case for my iPhone. Until I read the last line in the advertisement -

We don’t intend this product for actual use. Any claims regarding difficulty of use will ignored.

Aw...Christmas this year will not be magical. Oh, wait. Maybe it will. Why don't I go and buy those brilliant Bic pens for women? Finally someone understood the needs of the modern woman - pens in pink and purple, "Designed to fit comfortably in a woman's hand," as they advertise it. God bless them. At last women everywhere can start writing. This will be the start of a new revolution, mark my words.

Death by limescale

..which brings me to my number-two gripe. The water here doesn't suit me, quite literally. London has hard water. On the day of my arrival to this great city, something happened that profoundly changed my perception of our world. I had my first sip of London tap water. It took a few moments for my brain to process what my tongue was sensing, i.e., the water didn't taste like it does in other big cities I've been to or lived in. There's a conflict, like when you know through long experience that computer nerds have no interest in art, and bang, on your first date with Mr C++, you are dragged into a discussion about the relative merits of Dadaism in postmodern art. It unsettles you, the way something comes along to shatter a long-held conviction, like computer geeks cannot comprehend art, or that hard water is the bane of small towns that are too poor and uncool to source or generate soft water.

So once again, London water is hard. I'm not talking about a slightly-rough-around-the-edges kind of hard. This is seriously high on the Mohs scale. Granted, not as hard as in Salem, India, where years ago, I once washed my hair with tap water and when it dried, each strand stood to attention in the most rigid manner. And even though half my hair parted ways with my head when I combed it, the remaining hair felt as thick as before thanks to the salt coated on it. No, London water is not that bad, but then even in a town like Salem, they have soft water in the pipes now.

I can, and have, gotten over the fact that the water tastes awful, and it's acting funny with my tummy (it could be my imagination acting funny, but the point is I've gotten over it). But what causes me exquisite agony is the limescale. I never appreciated before, the privilege of living in a world free of hard water and limescale. I never knew how the other half lived. Now I am in that selfsame wretched, desolate other half. Limescale everywhere, wherever there is water. There is something so particularly provocative about limescale on the taps. The marks on the sink edges, the bath tub, I can somehow ignore, or at least not brood obsessively over. But the taps...the taps... They look so fabulous every time I clean them, which makes it all the more distressing when just a few minutes later the unavoidable water drops on the surface dry up and leave behind limescale marks. It's like the sigh of regret when you see the first indelible stain on the brand-new carpet. Except, in this case you sigh at the first indelible stain every few days.

Vinegar is my new best friend, although not my husband's. Every time I spray vinegar in the bathroom, he coughs markedly, bustles around, opening windows, closing doors, and remembers vague chores that require him to get out of the home.

I used to think dust is the worst enemy of the scrupulous housekeeper. Living on this side of the fence, I envy those soft-water elites whose hearts are as light as their feather dusters.