Telephone – Lady Gaga and Beyoncé 2010

After much reflection on the matter, the late-night Googling of a relevant twelve-step programme and being no longer able to bear the shame, I have a confession to make. 

I am an addict.

Despite my solid commitment and lifelong dedication to the consumption of Bacchus’ magnificent, syrupy and sweet contribution to my life on this earth, I am not alcoholic. At least not yet. At least I don’t think so. But I’ll keep you posted if I start wearing smeared black eyeliner and a black bouffant beehive.

No it isn’t the wine. However it has become clear to me that I can no longer take a breath without the loyal, loving and lyrical companionship of my phone.  

Paris, the calm before the storm

It starts early in the morning when I am plugged into her* jukebox of the plenty and bountiful while I sweat at the gym. Held tight in a sweaty hand or pressed against a humid arm in her purpose designed little strap so I can easily change from Guetta (running) to Glee (Cycling) to Garfunkel (stretching) with just the flick of a thumb. I am more than a little worried that should anyone ever do one of those swab tests on her to check for DNA there’s probably more of me on her than there is left in me.

I then shed a wistful tear as I confine her to the dark and stinky little wooden box disguised as a locker when we are forced, albeit briefly, to go our separate ways. I’ve not yet figured out how to take her for a swim.  But the short-lived desperately unwired to-ing and fro-ing in the basin of liquid chlorine masquerading as a pool ends with our delighted reunion after the shower. I plug in while I paint my face; I get all booty-shakin-licious as I wander underground into the metro.

I am not sure I could take public transport ever again if I was deprived of my phone. Gym to home, that’s at least 10 games. Gym to the office, I can watch an episode of Glee. Paris to London, you get a whole movie out of her, X-men this week, Bridesmaids next. I’ve reflected on what I actually did during the 9 years of my life I commuted 3 hours a day to school and university without being hard-wired into a telephone. If memory serves, I spent most mornings anxiously trying to finish something that was due at 9am that I had barely commenced the previous evening.

Now I am never late! My phone, obviously much more organised than I, can now organise everything for me. She wakes me up in the morning, three times in 30 minutes, just in case I resist the first or second of her banshee alarm howls. She beeps at me throughout the day telling me where to go, who to call and why, what city I should be in and by what mode and when I’ll be leaving. Without her, I am sure I would stand in the middle of the room, stare at the floor and spontaneously combust. I just would not know what to do next.

  Bloody Beef

My phone is my best friend and she tells me where all of my other slightly less best friends are and what they are doing. Ding, Louis likes my photo. Ding, Braveheart is at the airport (again). Ding, The Body says you can come and stay. Ding, the Microchef says hello, all the way from New Zealand. The wonder and delight of her connection to all my social media; I know everything about everyone at all times, without the inconvenience of actually having to talk to them. 

She’s actively increasing my general knowledge. Throughout the day she taps me on the shoulder to let me know that Persephone, goddess of the bounties of maternity with equally godly long blonde hair, is challenging me to another unwinnable game of Words.  My phone lights up to tell me that Greece is still clinging to the precipice of being classified as an actual country with an actual economy rather than owning up to the fact that they are the smelly kid of the EU that no one wants to sit next to. She buzzes me to squeak with gossip-girly-glee that Carla Bruni had her baby. She pings me photos of Duchess Kate’s latest foray into high street fashion glam. She reads everything for me and only tells me the bits she knows I’ll give a s**t about. 

She is also an artist. I go out and about in the world being very average and rather boring while she looks at everything, quite literally, through rose-coloured glasses. The photos on this pages are hers, not mine. I see it and snap, and she with her eye for colour and faded edges turns it into a work of art.

  Paris, the flag proves it if the Haussmanian monolith doesn't

In this modern world, a modern Darwinian gal has to adapt to survive. Why rely on the service of an actual living breathing male companion when you can achieve perfect happiness with a small electronic version of yourself.

Sitting in a bar seeking out the future Mr Darcy why bother with the mundane activity of talking to a potential future mate? We simply exchange phones. You want to know anything about me? Here is my phone. She will tell you what music I like, what I do with my days and read you my daily horoscope. That is so you can predict how I will react if you don’t call me back. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine” is no longer an X-rated game requiring you to take off your clothes; you just reach into your handbag.

A comforting thought; I know I am not the only one.

Recently, during an ill-planned afternoon about town, Braveheart quickly stopped in at home to get his charger before we sat down to a repas extraordinaire in a nearby restaurant. The kindly waiter kindly charged his phone while we ordered entrees. By main course, phone, full of juice and safely back in his right hand, he was able to breathe again.

Unplugging for one breathless moment I ask the question. How did we ever survive in those ungodly dark ages before we all had smartphones?

When you were sitting in a pub talking about Rugby World Cups past and present and the guy in front of you erroneously cited England as beating New Zealand in the quarterfinal, how could you prove him wrong without being able to rapidly search the answer on your phone? How were such life-altering disagreements ever resolved? Did you just have to get over it? 

When you went outside into the world to shop or to eat, how did you find where you were going without clicking on your friendly Google map and meandering your way up the street as you watch the little blue dot on the map do the same? Was everyone lost? Did people (even men) ask for directions? 

When you were in a café and you heard a song you didn’t know, how would you find out what it was without holding you phone up to listen to the song and tell you what it is, and offer to download it? Did everyone have to remember the names of every song before they hit HMV to buy it?

The chaos, ignorance and total lack of soundtrack that my little life would be without my shiny black saviour just do not bear contemplating.

Her snazzy new earrings

… and from time to time I also use her to make phone calls. 

 

* Obviously, with her designer pink and black accoutrement, my phone is a girl.

 

 

 

Comments

[Maureen]

Love the pics!

[MM]

Avec Instagram Momo, tout le monde devient Testino ou Lang

[Tony B]

Perhaps the apple that Eve offered Adam was an iphone4S :)