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?