Last night in a corner of a smokey pub in Cambridge a friend and I nuzzled up our Palm Treos together and mine accepted some apparently handy apps. I glanced up nervously, feeling guilty about this liaison in a public space, expecting to be thrown out. Back home, with the night wearing on and a failed hotsync later my trusty Palm was caught in an agonizing loop of starting up and going nowhere, and my pulse was racing. It was my moment of haste in the pub and now my digital life was potentially in ruins. Where was my Unique Tax Reference and my password for my paypall account? What was my son’s telephone number? When is the next research committee meeting? I went to bed in a mood of muted mourning knowing that I had not yet plumbed the depths of the extent of my loss. The extent of my passion for gimicry, gagetry (looking to them to stave off existential boredom) and my love of furtive free things was mirrored in the voiceless horror of my confusion. The story continues….