Pig Iron

It is faintly ridiculous that in my bag I am carrying a number of lumps of iron across the Atlantic. In many other bags on the plane sit many other chunks of iron. Transformers, we call them in England, and not the ‘Robots In Disguise’. I think the septics call them inverters. My laptop, phones and iPod all have power packs made of iron, coiled wires and the odd transistor. Madness. I have to carry them around. Sure. I could buy a magic transformer with multiple power supplies for all of my devices, but I’d still be carrying one lump of iron around. What’s that all about, eh?

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