Due to an obsession with not carrying any unneccesary weight over big hills, I have not bought my mobile phone charger on my extended excursion in Scotland. Instead I have been relying on the kindness of strangers, and the fact that 40% of the world’s mobile phones are made by the same company as mine to ensure a healthy level of charge in my phone battery.
A friend duly brought the ubiquitous Nokia charger to the pub in Edinburgh as my battery’s spark had suffered from ten days in the wilderness. I found a spare socket, and plugged in my depleted unit, while attending to the business of consuming Belhaven Best in The Oxford – described as the best old man’s pub in Edinburgh.
Engrossed in conversation, I suddenly became aware of a mild commotion at the periphery of my vision. Two very scottish people were gesticulating at the wire connected between the wall of the pub and my bag. They probably suspected some kind of terrorist device, so I rose to explain the matter to them – a simple dribble of electricity into a harmless communications device.
I was met with no less than a stream of vitriol at this explanation. I quickly surmised that the couple were in some way related to the ownership of this giffer’s pub, and were outraged at the imposition I had made.
“That’s stealing that is!”
“That’s not right!”
“Aye, we have to pay for that electricity.”
“How could you do that? That’s our electricity bill, that is.”
“That’s stealing that is, no less.”
In my best and politest southern British accent, I profusely apologised and prostrated myself at the mercy of these cheeseparing economists. I had a few facts to hand, since I had had a previous argument with someone about the cost of leaving a light bulb burning all night. True, the calculation was a gross simplification – a very limited estimation confined to the charge levied by an electricity company for a small amount of joules, ignoring the wider societal impact of negligence to such matters and the ensuing vicious spiral leading to global environmental meltdown. I chose not to point out the negligible cost of such an economic crime to them, but continued to grovel for clemency.
None was forthcoming, and I realised that real psychological damage had been done to these people by my unwitting larceny. No amount of humble apology was going to stop the reddened proprietor from looking down his broken-veined nose at my lowlife crime. Soon after, we left the pub to the old men that were glued to the floor, enraged by my purloining. This morning, I realised that I hadn’t turned on the switch – my phone had received none of the landlord’s expensive electrons. Maybe I’ll go and point it out to him.