Almost a grown-up

The phone rings.

'Yo, yo, yo, whassup?'

'Hi, Tom,' I say. 'Where are you?' The obvious question to ask, given that my younger brother is one of those people who now spend almost every one of their waking minutes on the mobile. It's got so that Tom is beginning to look peculiar without his Nokia pressed to his ear, like someone who wears specs not wearing specs - blank, sort of cloned, and a bit scary.

'I'm at Sainsbury's. The whine I'll.'

'The whine you'll what, Tom?'

'No. I'm in the wine aisle.'

'Oh. Right. So?'

'So what's that wine called that I like?'

'Red,' I reply.

'Nah, come on. Begins with a B.'

'Brouilly? Barolo? Beaujolais? Bordeaux?'

'Nah... Koonunga Hill, that's it. Two of them, I think. There we go... I'm cooking dinner for us tonight, you see.'

'Oh. So you and Jane have made up?'

'Course. It was just a tiff. Now, where's the veg?'

'A tiff. She decked you.'

'She caught me off balance, OK? It was nothing... What's that stuff called you put in salads?'

'Vinaigrette? Serving spoons? Lettuce?'

'Rocket, that's right. Here we are. Now, what else do I need?'

Of course, this is just Tom chuntering away to ensure his monthly phone bill reaches four figures, but I take the chance, anyway. 'A crash helmet,' I tell him. 'And an injunction.'

Today's best video

Today in pictures