My phone’s broken.  Not so smart now, are you, Mr I. Phone?

I won’t go into it what has gone wrong, mainly because I do not possess the language required to explain and, in any case, I have no idea what happened. I am stretching my technical knowledge just typing this post.  (What is a tag anyway?)

Do you know how long you can spend searching for ways to resurrect phones when they have died on you?  A Very Long Time. Time when you should be doing other more important things, like writing.  Technocrastination.  That’s what I’ve called it. And no I haven’t bothered to google it. (See Blogcrastination for further info.)

My IT Director has taken over dealing with the phone issue following several terse conversations along the lines of:

What is your pass code? err, don’t know.

When did you last do a back up?  You have to back it up?


And yes, we are married.

He has whisked the phone off to the Apple store today.  I am hopeful that by this evening I’ll have it back.

On the other hand, I have been most enlightened by my time without a phone.  It doesn’t half take over when it’s here.  I’m always checking for emails, what’s apps and texts.  I have a look at the news apps a few times a day as well.  And, oh, yes, there’s that other app, a silly addictive game that my kids put on there. Honestly, it was them. I do like to keep up with what they’re interested in, but I’m pretty sure I am the only adult woman in the world who has even played on that particular app.  At least it doesn’t keep a record of how many hours you’ve spent playing it, like Boggle does. (That one’s educational, so it doesn’t count.)  I suppose all of that’s technocrastination too.  Can’t win really.

When the phone gets home I’m going to be really strict with it.  Myself, I mean, obviously, because even though it is a bit of a smarty pants, I’m in charge.  Right?

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