At first I thought it was the battery. But after tinkering with it for while, the blue LCD light only heaved for a split second before dying again. Eventually I came to terms with the fact that my scotch-taped (oh yes!), antediluvian, 512 megabyte MP3 player purchased in the Neolithic era has finally bitten the dust.

(Cue fat lady to sing Amazing Grace)

Why have I not replaced it sooner you might ask? Why not get one of those IPods with insane storage capacities that sell like a hotcakes these days? Easy. I am a quasi-Luddite who avoids jumping on the bandwagon like I would a plague. I found comfort in knowing that what I had was a simple, brainless piece of obsolete technology I can operate even when in a coma. It was mouldy and ailing and could only hold so many songs but it was reliable protection against all that insipid Muzak. And to some extent, it was also a form of rebellion against the fad.

Thus I, its less-than-devastated widow, am left aurally exposed to the elements faced during the daily commute. Impeccable timing too. This in the middle of the most financially crippling holiday of the year: Christmas.

So unless there really is an overweight bearded man in the North Pole, I will henceforth be humming to myself while walking home from work.