Immobile

I lost my mobile phone a week ago.

Bliss!

Having replaced it yesterday with the second cheapest one in the shop I am already feeling that sinking feeling that people in the Americas must have got every time they were ‘discovered’. What – again already? Didn’t you discover us before? And take away your filthy pox and your silly costumes and your strange language. Or leave a message and we’ll discover you back when we’re available.

I quite liked the freedom of not being summoned on demand. Not having to ignore those around me to filter new ‘urgent’ and ‘important’ categories on demand. I am not a computer. I am a person. I don’t have apps; I have skills. I don’t predict what you are about to tell me (always). I don’t lose all my information when set down somewhere random and forgotten about. Well, maybe I do. But that is besides the point.

I would like a phone to act as a PA for me, not as a yapping puppy.

I would also like to be able to choose a new phone (when the need arises once in every ten years), on the basis of the size of the buttons, not on how many mega-pixels the camera uses. Would madam like a few more mega-pixels with her pixel-sized buttons? Or how easily it can be cleaned after sticky fingers get hold of it, not whether it is a candy-bar shape. Does madam take toddlers with her technology? Or whether the phone can be locked and still found useful as a toy for a yappy.

If I was that dead-set against it I should not have bought a new one.

But I needed to find out what I might have otherwise been missing, and parts of my life are currently dictated by SMS contact. Perhaps I should set myself an upper age limit, and aim to be rid of my mobile by then.