No mobile phone, no home phone, no Internet, no television - I may as well be sitting cross-legged and blindfolded in the middle of the Sahara desert, constantly shouting ‘nar nar nar’ with my fingers in my ears. It’s gotten so bad that I’ve shelled out another £45 in train fare to Hull, which is twice in a week (not that boredom is the only reason).
My phone should have come back to me in Lancaster this morning, which it hasn’t, so as I’m on my way to the other side of the Pennines, my phone should be arriving back in Lancashire tomorrow. That is, unless it’s gone forever, lost in the mail system until the end of time, or until the Royal Mail employee who nicked it realises it isn’t worth two-bob and chucks it in the dog bowl to be chewed on by Fido. So, no phone for at least another three days.
I’ve found it almost completely devastating in not having this small, communicable device in the last two days alone. It’s not that I use it that much anyway unless I’m receiving calls, but it’s the security that comes with it. It is also the fact that it’s a way of telling the world you are available, whether it be for drinks at your local, or a sympathetic ear for your dumped best-mate.
I can remember a time, four or five years ago in college to be exact, that I was the only Neanderthal not to have a mobile phone. In a year meeting one day, a tutor asked those who do not yet own a mobile phone to put their hand up – no one did. Not even me. I wasn’t going to put my hand up and admit it, like being the kid in school whose complete uniform had been handed down from his older brother (mine was new by the way). Those were happy days. Days when you didn’t necessarily need a mobile to function in everyday society. Having a mobile in this new millennium is as essential as say, eating or breathing. And that's just wrong.
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