I have a new mobile phone. It's sleek and black and scary. Possession of it is not an unmixed delight.
Faithful readers of this column know that I do not 'do' technology. Resistant to the point of obduracy, I'm but one step ahead of writing in the sand with a pointy stick and avoid anything power-driven that requires more skill than turning it on and off.
I'm not a mile behind American writer James Thurber's mother who believed that electricity leaked out of the sockets in the night.
The new phone came about thus. I had an unsolicited call from a nice young man from BT who expressed concern about my astronomical monthly telephone bill and 15 minutes later agreed a deal that will cost considerably less and includes a new phone - which I do not want.
Nonetheless, he charmed me into forsaking my antediluvian Nokia (which has survived unscathed despite being dropped down two toilets) for a sophisticated streamlined device that does everything except dance the polka.
Argument was futile as the nice young man pointed out the new phone's multiple features, none of which I'm likely to take advantage of since I only make calls, take calls and text.
The very next day the package arrived. I opened it unwillingly. All the bits lie before me as I write, together with a Book of Destructions in seven languages and such small type I need a magnifying glass to decipher it.
I began with the Idiot's Guide to Getting Started. Suffice to say, my brain instantly froze over.
Now, I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person, but something happens to me when faced with the operating instructions for anything. It's like sitting an examination in a subject you've never studied.
A fruitless 20 minutes later I abandoned hope, had a coffee, four chocolate digestives and a long conversation with a friend on old faithful Nokia.
I regret to say it's been the same with every electrical appliance I've ever bought. Offer me too many options and I'm incapable of taking any of them.
When the microwave died I bought another purely for its looks. So far I've only mastered how to cook things in 30 second bursts while I retire to the futility room in case it explodes.
The washing machine thermostat has developed a mind of its own, flickering about randomly from programme to programme. The trick is to watch it like a hawk till it settles momentarily on the optimum cycle, then jab the 'start' button as rapidly as possible, otherwise your 'delicates' accidentally revolving for 3 hours 14 minutes are irretrievably ruined.
It's a conspiracy. Every gadget is out to get me. May you never have to scrape a wall when your food processor blows it's top. Even the toaster needs a double thump to encourage it to pop.
Having long ago lost the Book of Words for the freezer, I have to defrost it by leaving the door open and build flood defences across the kitchen floor.
"This kettle's broken," announced a house-guest recently. "The snib won't stay down."
"You've lost the run of yourself since you had that fancy instant boiling water tap installed back home," I retorted. "There's a knack to the kettle. It knows my touch."
And it does. By this stage you're thinking, why doesn't this dumb woman just get rid of the lot and buy new?
True, the appliances are a bit the worse for wear and have developed their own little idiosyncrasies.
They remind me of valued but vaguely annoying old friends I'd sooner put up with than cultivate new ones.
For me, the 'thrill of the new' doesn't extend to white goods - or mobile phones.
Included in the new phone's packaging is a sly little notice blithely suggesting, "Now that you have your new device, why not cash in your old one?"
As somebody famous once said, "Never, never, never." I'm mournfully 'waking' it in a little foam-lined box, in the hope that one day when I'm long gone it'll be on the Antiques Roadshow.
