STILL on the subject of technology, there’s nothing like a Smartphone to remind a parent how fast the grave approaches.
Bloke and I have both recently had our end-of-contract mobile upgrades. While Bloke spent the best part of a fortnight like a besotted teen, gazing dreamily into the huge screen of his huge new phone, I was ready to stamp on mine after a few hours.
Forget downloading apps and posting to Twitter. Trying to transfer my numbers from my old phone to my new one seemed as impossible as trying to extract wind from a newborn. I stomped off to bed, vowing to return it (the phone) to the shop the following day.
The next morning the tech-savvy males of the household had successfully transferred the numbers, backed-up everything to my computer and even defeated a couple of levels of Angry Birds for me. And Dougie worked out within a few seconds how to lock the damn thing, a feat that I’d failed to complete even with the manual to hand.
I handed my old phone on to Son 1, who has been enduring the teen shame of a three-year-old mobile because he lost his new one weeks after his birthday and we wouldn’t buy him a new one. To rub salt into my ageing, Luddite wounds, he managed to set it up to do things I didn’t discover it could do in two years of ownership. It even looks better, and costs him less than it did me. I feel ancient.