I make no bones about it, I’m a lifelong technophobe not a hoot ‘n’ a holler off James Thurber’s mother who believed that electricity leaked out of the sockets in the night.
Not only am I incapable of operating anything more than two switches (preferably ON and OFF) I’m not remotely interested in gizmos, gadgets and multitasking appliances. Nor have I anything but pity for people who walk about, one hand permanently welded to their smartphone, declaring with misplaced pride: “My whole life’s in that phone.” I’d like to get through at least one lunch/dinner/social occasion without somebody’s pocket or handbag vibrating with an intrusive ringtone and conversation having to be suspended while they feel duty-bound (nay, compelled) to answer it.
On the very rare occasion it’s my handbag that’s ringing, the concerted response of the company is: “Aren’t you going to answer that?” Only if it’s a matter of life, death, emergency or the National Lottery.
Such occurrences are rare. My phone might lie doggo at the bottom of my bag for days, haemorrhaging power. I do not wish to be instantly accessible to any but family, close friends, people issuing attractive invitations or asking me to write – for which I have a perfectly serviceable landline with an answering machine. “Aren’t you afraid of missing out?” they ask. On what, precisely? Prosaic texts, moronic jokes, irrelevant photographs and footage of people doing daft things? No.
My favourite occupation when ‘OUT out’ is people-watching. A new social code has evolved. Look at this young couple who’ve just come into the restaurant. Shown to their table, they take their seats in perfectly synchronised unison, each places their mobile phone to the right of the soup spoon. After a few verbal exchanges, they take up their phones and, heads bowed, thumbs busy, they text all their friends. This goes on until their food arrives. Then they photograph their dinner and send ‘to all’. Subsequently, a series of ‘beeps’ heralds their friends’ texted responses. Between forkfuls of food, each shows the other the texts. A loud and discordant ringtone pierces the discreet chatter of the other diners. It’s his phone. He rises from his seat and wends his way through the tables talking loudly to his friend Tony. She takes the opportunity of his absence to text all her friends – again. On her swain’s return she summons a waiter and hands him her phone. “Would you take a photo of us?” she asks. He obliges. They lean in with raised glasses and wide smiles. Click. They send the photograph ‘to all’.
Going to the cinema is another social hazard. An impetigo rash of twinkling blue lights pocks the darkness throughout the main feature, accompanied by the subdued beeps of arriving texts. Why pay to see a film and not give it full attention? A woman in front of me played Candy Crush all through the trailers of coming attractions. Nowhere is nuisance-free.
Unforgivably, the odd ringtone interrupts a classical concert, but the culprit at least has the grace to be mortified. One isn’t even safe on the streets from idiots simultaneously walking and texting. There was a girl on the Belfast bus last week describing (graphically and audibly) to a friend on her phone, an argument she’d had with her boyfriend. Proximity meant I couldn’t but hear it. I had an overwhelming urge to tap her on the shoulder and say: “Leave it love. He’s not worth it.” I was quite disappointed when she got off at Maghera. I’ll never know now whether or not they ever made up.
I’ll grudgingly admit there are times when possession of a mobile phone is useful. Daughter Dear rings on my landline to say she’s spotted a little something online I might fancy. “Get your mobile and I’ll show you,” she instructs, posting me pictures of pretty things. Landline phone in one hand, mobile (alarmingly low in juice) in the other, I’m frogmarched through the process of retrieving them. What a palaver! It rarely ends well. She gets impatient at my ineptitude and I get fractious. “You’re HOPELESS Mumma….” True… and not one whit repentant.
