My mobile phone is deceased. No use complaining to The Husband as he hates new technology with a vengeance and thinks a blackberry is something that goes in a pie. He has only just learned how to switch the computer on in his office and has no notion at all of texting, email, twitter, facebook or anything like that and certainly doesn't have the time or the inclination to check his messages. Last time I looked he had 764 on his mobile. There is more than a decade in difference in our ages and I don't often think about the age gap until we discuss technology and then it becomes a century.
"There was time," he says, "when things were made to last, you bought something and you had it a lifetime." "Yes dear but that was a cow hide briefcase or your Mam's hand knitted Christmas jumper."
"There are landfills everywhere bursting with mobile phones that work perfectly well but have been deposed by the latest models, that apparently have more knobs and whistles." he says moodily before adding,
"things change because they can and not because they need to," (It's one of his favourite philosophical sayings at the moment.)
When I think of the first mobile phone I had I'm glad it's long since gone. For a start 'mobile' was really a contravention of the Trades Descriptions Act in that I couldn't actually lift it by myself. The previous models needed a fork lift truck. I remember the ex-husband showing it off to me as he unpacked it from its ominously large cardboard box, which later became a Wendy house for the next door neighbours' kids.
"Look" he said enraptured, "it comes with its own shoulder bag."
Which proved to be absolutely vital, as the battery was the size of two shoe boxes and the phone itself, equal to any house brick in both size and weight. The bag was khaki and looked like something a tank commander would use to coordinate desert manoeuvres. We were busy opening a chain of stores in California at the time and I would be called out to such exotic places as San Diego to help the shop fitters with the final fluffy bits of getting the business open, such as hanging the pictures or flower arranging. In the days before sat-nav, the ex-husband thought having the phone would be great if I went missing in action, which I often did.
"You can phone for new directions and they could talk you in." He said with utter confidence.
However as I soon discovered, to get any reception at all, the phone needed to be on high ground, away from electricity pylons, tall buildings, mountains, airports or motorway flyovers. It meant looking at the map to find a location that met all the requirements and then navigate there. It didn't take a genius to realise that even with my poor map reading skills it would be easier to navigate to the shop location in the first place.
Which led to my attempt to find the San Diego shop in the south of the state un-aided. As I set off I remember thinking, how hard can it be? Especially with such good directions from the native office staff.
"Don't worry," they told me at our headquarters, "you really can't miss it. You'll see the towers on Cinderella's Castle at Disneyland on your right and shortly after that there's huge signs for Sea World and you'll know its not far."
To this day I don't know how I missed Disneyland, as you can probably see it from Mars but I kept going South. I ended up attempting to cross the border into Mexico without a passport, after getting stuck in the queue of immigrants and seeing signs that said "Warning: Do not turn back after this point." I arrived at my destination five hours late to find the shop closed and fearing the return journey in the dark, had to check into a cheap motel where I found a cockroach in the shower.
I don't know why the ex-husband got so cross, I'm sure loads of people are escorted back from the crossing point by a military escort. I think the thing that got his goat was that the van had our company logo on the side. It got caught on camera and was shown on a CNN news feature about people trying to cross the border illegally, which probably delighted the competition no end.
"When you're finished day dreaming," The Husband cuts into my reverie, "could you check my email messages, I need the time of the meeting on Monday night."
"Lots of spam," I say.
"Ah, Spam," he says brightening, "I remember when we used to fry it with sausages at Scout's camp. Lovely."
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