I JUST cannot shake the feeling that it’s all going to work out.
Because, on Saturday, I found concrete proof that there is hope for us all.
Readers of this column will know that I have a certain ‘Typhoid Mary’ effect on technology – particularly mobile phones.
Last year my shiny, exciting, touch screen spaceship phone was drowned, by me, in a water bucket.
Not on purpose you understand, but during one of those awful time-standing-still moments when you see something expensive and none waterproof falling like a stone towards a big vat of moisture.
I found myself locked into an expensive, fruitless and never-ending contract without the bait (shiny spaceship phone) that had initially lured me into the trap.
So I decided to grit my teeth and honour the contract (couldn’t legally escape it) by inserting the sim card into the guts of my trusty old Nokia.
I loved my Nokia, especially when it came back to save me, but I was very bad at taking care of it. It was held together by sellotape and had chocolate crumbs jammed between the buttons. It had a faux gold cover which had rubbed off at the corners.
On Saturday, after living a vigorous life, it finally gave up and the screen melted into a psychedelic swirl.
A thunder cloud of dread gathered around my head as I realised I would have to go phone shopping.
But lo, it was in the hated phone shop that something amazing happened.
It turns out that while certain affluent patches of the world have been bedazzled by iPhones and Nasa-level technology; someone, somewhere has quietly invented my fantasy phone.
It’s plain black and a marvel of simple engineering – much like the first phone I ever bought, which was gradually leap frogged by progressively more ridiculous and complicated models.
This one has nice big buttons that are easy to press and a minimalist menu with only the things I want on it.
Like a classy restaurant, it cooks a handful of dishes to perfection.
It makes calls, texts, photos and Facebook happen with no fanfare or wizardry needed. It even has that old familiar ring tone “da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-daaaa”.
It is the actual capitalist dream as opposed to the nightmare reality which ends with me crying on the bedroom floor next to a pile of receipts for things I no longer want that don’t work anyway.
Best of all – it was cheap as chips – costing less than one single month’s worth of my ridiculous contract.
I feel like I have returned to a better time, and that if I hold on long enough, other simple, wholesome things may return. Like sherbert lemons.
I looked for them in my local shop the other day but they have been driven out by the seedy sweetness of soft jellies.
Still, whenever I feel an uplifting rage at the prospect of no more sherbert lemons or some other heartless injustice, I am so gratefully comforted by my new phone that the bile subsides.
Everything is going to be fine.