A couple of weeks ago, my mobile phone blew up. I took it out of my bag and there it was – glass shattered and layers of phone curled open like a stale sandwich. Naturally I panicked, because I’ve become attached to the thing. Because anything can happen at any time, can’t it? Tragic or important news could be coming through, and what’s the time? Is the parking meter running out? Am I late? Is the daughter/this friend/that friend safe? In danger? Alive or dead? What if the dog was attacked/car broke down, and I had to call the vet/AA? And suppose a burglar broke in while I was in the bath and I needed to call for assistance? So I had it close to my person at all times.
And I kept it on night and day, because there was always the chance of a vital call/text coming through from someone in distress. All right, it might be somebody younger texting: “Goodnight” or “Are you around tomorrow?” at 2am because they have forgotten my bedtime is 10.30, but what if it was Daughter stuck somewhere hazardous in the small hours?
But do you see that I said “a fortnight ago”? And I did not say: “I rushed out and bought another one immediately.”
Isn’t that odd? Because although I couldn’t turn it off voluntarily, I find that I am functioning relatively well now that it has been forcibly taken from me. I have my landline, and my mother’s 60-year-old still-functioning wristwatch, and a new serenity and freedom. Particularly while out and about: freedom from having to put down the shopping, lead and bag of dog-excrement, stop the car, or anything I’m doing, in order to answer the mobile; freedom from getting out my glasses, putting them on to read texts, pecking out a reply; freedom from being forever agitated and interrupted.
“Don’t worry, Mum,” says Daughter. “You need a new one anyway. I can get a bargain iPhone 4 or 5. An early birthday present, then you can have 4G, do all your emails, this app, that app, blah, blah ...”
Help.
