I wake up, curse my clock, get ready.
I wander down out of my building and rummage in my bag for the elixir that pumps into my ears, those chords that amaze me each morning and allow me to get places in dull stupors, before I've properly woken up.
Flick the hold switch - the most horrible message known to man pops up.
"Battery empty. Please recharge."
And I die a little inside.
You may wonder why I'm actually blogging about this now, but truth is that after I printed, I fled home under the pretences of 'needing a stapler' but in reality I began charging my iPod. Now, after two bouts of the Whitlams, one Enrique Iglesias crooning and some Hillsong, I am about ready to leave.
With a charged iPod.
I love iPod docks. I love them for their ability to fiercely charge my pretty little Harry. (The iPod itself is black, and has a jagged crack in the top corner of the screen. Thus, Harry Potter. This is a far better name than my friend suggested - Michael Jackson. Simply because this crack appeared on the day Jackson died. Never mind that the iPod contains not an ounce of Master Jackson.)