...and don't panic! The Know brings you advice during housing
A true friend is always there for you, especially when you're drunk.
Miss Quit regresses to her childhood this week as the prospect of beginning the "University of Life" looms.
It is a sad but true reality that, in this day and age, without the little gadget that contains a person’s social world one may as well be stranded in the Sahara. Or dead. If, by some Aristotelian tragedy, one does go without it for even a day, a barrage of abuse ensues. Oh, the amount of slightly too aggressive where-ARE-you?'s that my answer-phone has terrorised me with over the years can attest to that.
As I pondered the value of being contactable every waking (and sleeping) moment, I began to feel rather resentful towards Penny. Yes, my phone has a name, but enough about my disturbing idiosyncrasies. Stopping to think before I texted made me see the psychological shackles that bounded me to that keypad.
If you’re still not convinced, let me give you an exercise to try: next time you are in a club, pub, or any social setting for that matter, just take a quick survey of the room, noting how many people are engaged in phone-related activities. I bet you your Samsung that it’ll be a good 1/3.
Alas my friends, we are merely the products of our pay-as-you-go society. We are a nation of Mobiphiles, or, if you prefer American to English, Celluphiles.
So with this realisation piercing through me like a ringtone, how could I possibly back down from the challenge? Indeed, after conquering the habitual last minute and somewhat irrational temptation to hire a carrier pigeon, I was primed and ready to switch off my social-life-support machine.
Mission accepted.
At least it was, until the evening before my planned excommunication D-day….
Now, I genuinely had all the intention in the world of going through with this week’s quit, but it would seem that the cellular gods had other ideas. In a truly absurd twist that only a heavily inebriated night in York’s cheesiest (and only) 80s Bar can facilitate, one of my best friends lost her mobile phone. The very night before I was due to start my handset detox. Irony, thy name is Reflex.
Long story short, this is going to be an imitation quit because, well quite frankly, anyone would be silly not to capitalise on such a golden opportunity. Plus, as best friend, it was my duty to offer all fully charged, pay-as-you-go services. She was practically destitute, after all. It was the least I could do…
A cop-out? Moi?
Alright alright, perhaps a little…but you have to admit you’d do the same. And I don’t mean helping out a friend in need. Any addict would jump at the first excuse to avoid rehab, and let’s not kid ourselves here, we are ALL addicted to keeping in touch. We may like to think we can quit anytime we want, but we could no more give up texts than we could oxygen.
Until we lose our lifeline, that is.
Rather hysterical upon discovering her loss, as you can imagine, my poor friend proceeded into the stages of mourning. Initially she was panicky, becoming increasingly emotional as she emptied the contents of her clutch into my lap whilst I, in a desperate bid to reassure her, remained adamant that “it must be here somewhere, it just MUST”. This no doubt aggravated the situation. Then came shock at the realisation it was gone, which rapidly turned into anger. It was concluded: some Scal/Chav/No-good-ruffian-type must have stolen it.
Then came shock at the realisation it was gone, which rapidly turned into anger. It was concluded: some Scal/Chav/No-good-ruffian-type must have stolen it.
A tearful taxi ride home and a cup of tea later, she had laid her phone to rest, and was ready to seek out a new one by breakfast time the next morning. Then came the torment of the mandatory 3-5 working days of sheer waiting hell (which turned out to be 8, thanks to those ever-efficient souls who run the British postal service).
It would be a safe assumption that, at one point or another, we have all been without our cherished connection with the outside world. About this time last year, Penny’s predecessor had been pinched too. The complete and absolute pain of rounding up all those precious numbers is only the tip of the iceberg. All the cherished texts, photos, and voice messages lost forever.
As if that weren’t bad enough, you are wholly reliant on the charity of others in order to let people know that for the foreseeable future you will be uncontactable. Queue those aforementioned angry answer-phone messages which ironically, and mercifully, you will never actually hear.
Not only are you a technological invalid isolated from the world, but also now public enemy number one. Hence my conclusion: mobile phones are necessary for existence, and therefore those who steal them are no better than murderers.
I shall end this week’s column with the victim’s own choice words: “I wish you had been stolen instead of my phone”. It would appear that using someone else’s misfortune as the basis for an article does not earn you many friends. Hopefully my digits will still feature in her address book.
Oh well, if not there’s always Facebook….
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