Recently, I’ve been spending a lot of time looking down. So much so I rarely notice the sky any more. Has spring arrived, by any chance?
What I am driving at is this: I have an iPhone 4.
The fact that mobile phones are celebrating their 40th anniversary is coincidental to my purchase, although both are reasons for global celebration.
Sure, such an acquisition is no biggie in most people’s lives, but for me it has been like gaining entry into the “normal” club. Do you know how great that is after a lifetime as a caveman? Finally I am a member of the gadget generation. I can join the tidal waves of humanity that daily sweep up every high street, fixated by lozenges of love.
Maybe some kind soul will pay me the compliment of calling me a geek, a techie or a nerd.
Maybe I’ll be welcome among tiny cliques where the conversation is about mobile ecosystems, integrated user experience and escape velocity. Or even cloud computing and gamification. Yes, I looked those terms up.
But I mustn’t get ahead of myself.
I still have Neanderthal tendencies compared to youthful coworkers, whose thumbs do a skilful jive all over their iPhone keyboards. Showoffs, all of them.
At this stage I’m more like a drunk in a potato sack doing the funky chicken dance.
In plainer English, I haven’t progressed from using my right forefinger to stab the keys, often the wrong ones, while my other hand grips the wretched thing.
In other more important areas of cell phone use I’m well up to speed.
For instance, I find it helpful in avoiding awkward conversations. Or feigning not to see people I’ve upset. Or providing a cover for madness, by which I mean talking to myself.
It can also give the marvellous impression that I have a vast network of friends constantly phoning and texting me.
Perhaps the biggest iPhone joy was taught to me by a guy on a grounded plane, which had mechanical problems. While mechanics did their stuff and passengers murmured, a young suit behind me seized his opportunity.
Here’s a compressed version.
“Hey, Steve, there’s no room for sentiment here,” he boomed. “You’re a friend, but we are talking business here, with billions at stake. Just what do you bring to the table? You and I are going to have to have a very serious talk when I get back.”
He loved the performance. And so did I. So much so that I began immediately to dream up dramas I could have with myself, while entertaining my listeners.
For example, I could be a mafia boss ordering a hit.
“Messa with me, you little cock-o-roach, you messa with the family, capisce? First I squish you, then I bury you in the desert.”
Wow, that’s so good I could get arrested.
Better play it safer. How about this for piquing curiosity?
“Yo Barack! How’re you hangin’, dude? Hey, did I leave my fancy owl iPhone cover in the White House? I did! Ain’t that something, man?”
There is no end to the possibilities. My fantasy life has been enriched beyond measure. So happy 40th, little guy, and thank you!
Oh hang on, one of my legion of friends has just texted me.
