My mobile phone phobia

Actually, I don’t think my inability to use a mobile phone is a phobia. And it’s not even an inability to use a mobile phone -- on occasion. I can make calls and send SMSes and play Snake -– and that’s about it. I can’t remember my number and don’t know how to retrieve voicemails, take photos, or change my ring tone. I rarely remember to carry my phone with me – or if I do, to turn it on. It’s simply not part of my mental, pre-exit checklist: Door keys, bike keys, gloves, hat, rain pants, purse, door keys (again), bike lights, and gum. No phone. I am constantly amazed by the fact that every Cloggie cycles past me each morning with their phone clamped to their ear with one, umbrella/child/dog/laptop case held firmly in the other, chatting away as if their life depended on it. Who are they talking to and what could they possibly have to talk about so animatedly at 8.30 in the morning?

This can cause problems. Saturday night, for example, we were due to meet another couple for dinner at a local Belgian restaurant. Off we trot at 8, dressed up in our finery (ok, clean clothes), and sat at the bar in the restaurant waiting for our friends to arrive. At 8.15, it suddenly occurred to me that they only had my mobile phone number and, as usual, I had not turned it on all day and had left it at home. At 8.20, a waitress approached us and announced, amused, that there was a phone call for us: Sure enough, Jo was sick, a message had been left on my voicemail, but we hadn’t responded so they’d phoned to check we knew. Doh! Embarrassment and groveling apologies all round.

Why am I incapable of remembering the damn thing? Perhaps it’s because of my initial delay in getting one. I refused to buy one in London, partly out of a reluctance to enter a mobile phone shop, and partly due to taking a perverse delight in making people turn up on time for appointments, rather than calling to say that they’d be late. I waited another 18 months in Amsterdam, figuring that there were very few people I wanted to call or be called by. I’ve never needed a phone for work – indeed, the ability to remain uncontactable by colleagues out of office hours was a huge incentive to be mobile-free. Waiting until after I was 30 clearly meant that it was too late for me to change my habits: I am not and never will be an instinctive mobile phone carrier, in the same way that it is now too late for me to develop natural grace (either physically or under fire) or a liking for olives and wine.

Amusingly -– nay, ironically -- I now have two mobiles: one for Amsterdam and one for London, as I found that I only made calls on my Dutch phone when I was in London, and Vodafone was charging me a fortune for this. If I’m only going to use my phone occasionally, I don’t want to overpay for the privilege. How “goedkoop” of me –- perhaps some Dutch attitudes are rubbing off on me, after all [shudder].