My mates were distraught. Random passengers started helpfully looking under seats. Me, I just shrugged elaborately and not only because I was several bottles of Freixenet Cava to the wind.
Losing and breaking stuff is such an everyday occurrence in my world that I simply register it and then move on. It doesn’t mean I don’t care. It simply means I don’t want a fuss and I certainly don’t expect sympathy.
I’m not sure if “just sucking it up” qualifies as a superpower, but if it does then I’m happy to throw my hat into the Marvel franchise ring – although I’d possibly need a rebrand. Imperturbable Woman doesn’t quite generate the same buzz as Batman, although I’d take a guess that her blood pressure is considerably lower.
But I digress. My phone is insured so I will get a replacement, but until then it has been fascinating to observe the knock-on effects of being disconnected, disfranchised and detached.
Entre nous, it’s by no means all unpleasant, although it is bizarre to witness the drama llamas all around me getting vicariously upset and repeatedly asking me if there’s any news, heads tilted in concern at my shocking iBereavement.
Yet here’s the thing, not being glued to a small screen has given me so many hours back that I’m seriously considering whether I should do a PhD, offer to run some sort of government department or ride a motorcycle off a Norwegian cliff.
I have tidied out the filing cabinet, finally taken my winter coats to the dry cleaners, made a metre-square slab of rocky road and been to see the new Mission Impossible movie.
Solo, obviously, as I don’t know anyone’s numbers and my husband felt he could best serve me by staying home and checking my email every quarter of an hour.
My unshakeable stoicism aside, it’s been quite disturbing to discover all the life-enhancing (aka time-wastey) things I can’t do without my phone; online banking, scrolling through Vinted while watching telly, summoning up Wordle at 15 seconds past midnight, remembering appointments, coffee dates (sorry!) and which airline I’ve booked my holiday flights with at the end of the month.
I can’t order anything from my computer as vendors require confirmation from my bank by logging onto the app on my – ah, you’re ahead of me. So that’s my retail endorphin kicks gone for a Burton. But in their place, perhaps my creativity will be turbocharged?
It seems the likes of Tom Cruise, Sir Elton John, Ed Sheeran and Sarah Jessica Parker have all admitted to not owning a smartphone. Studies have also shown that putting down your mobile for as little as an hour a day reduces anxiety and leaves people feeling more satisfied with life.
Would film director Christopher Nolan have made Oppenheimer if he had a top-of-the-range Samsung Galaxy S23 Ultra rather than a modest little flip phone? I’m inclined to think not. Justin Bieber is phone-free for the sake of his work-life balance; they’re called cell phones because they keep you prisoner, people.
The question is, has my considerably less starry equilibrium received a boost? So far so promising, although my spouse rather unnecessarily reports I am emotionally needier than previously – no wonder, as I’m usually conducting at least four hilarious, emoji-strewn WhatsApp convos with different groups at any given time. It’s like Friday night at The Algonquin Round Table on my handset 24/7. No husband could ever be a substitute for that.
But I’d be lying if I denied a certain feeling of relief at slipping through a wormhole in the space-time continuum and being a non-person for quite a few days.
All bets – and responsibilities – are off when you’re not contactable. If I ain’t there, it ain’t my problem. I imagine it’s how Sir Richard Branson feels when he’s escaping the rat race (and those unbearably sassy Virgin Atlantic male cabin crew in skirts) on Necker.
My new phone is taking its time to arrive, not least because the automated ladybot on the O2 insurance helpline took the huff when I repeatedly didn’t know the answer to my personal question.
This was pretty rich as she refused to remind me what the question was, so I was reduced to randomly yelling the name of my first pet, my favourite colour and my first make and model of car into my daughter’s handset. To no avail.
Eventually a human took over and sighed heavily. I wasn’t the first to point out the Kafkaesque nature of the exchange. Forget Elon Musk’s fears about a Terminator Future in which artificial intelligence will destroy mankind with a 3D printed military grade defence system or whatever, AI is perfectly capable of irritating humanity to death, one by one.
So for now it’s a waiting game. I’m reluctantly clock-watching, which, incidentally, is a lot easier than it used to be, Dear Readers, because (whisper it) my blurry eyesight has markedly improved. Another win!
I say reluctantly because although I’m not in the British Virgin Islands, I do feel as if I’m on holiday. And once that package arrives, I won’t be any more. Unless, that is, I decide not to open it for another week and enjoy my accidental digital detox a little longer...
