Time is a relative thing. It can only be measured in passing. There occurred general amusement on the bus when the middle-aged woman in the flashily purple nails took her phone out to answer a call. Her veined, slightly tanned hand clutched the little thing – some latest micro model – and put it right in front of her mouth: “Hello!”, then realized the other end was talking so moved the phone to the ear, for a while, nodding, mentally preparing her response, and when she could, placed the phone again at mouth level and said her piece, then swiftly back to the ear so as not to miss the answer. Giggles from the teenage girls in the back, and more mature nods of bewilderment from older folks. “She’s using it like she’s on WhatsApp!” Oblivious of this and content, the lady, stuck with her phone in some beginning of twentieth century, got off a few stops later.