I’ve got a new touch screen phone and have found myself looking with envy at people who’ve had one for quite a while.
I’m fascinated at the way they quickly and expertly flick pages across the screen with their fingers and seem to have so many more phone calls and texts than me as they are always so busy fiddling.
But now that I have one of these phones – the technophobe finally gets with it after all this time – I realise that all these other people are probably in ‘app’ heaven.
For those of you who don’t know (and bear with me as this isn’t an official definition), apps are little programmes designed to make your life easier or more entertaining .
So for instance there’s a GPS system, ingenious ways of organising your contact lists and even a Book of the Dead to help your journey through to the afterlife – all very useful on a number 73 bus ride.
Apps are either ways of helping you organise a very busy life, or pockets of distraction from that very busy life.
It’s very exciting entering this new realm. But moving forward with the times has presented me with quite a physical challenge.
It turns out that I need a wide screen as I have fat fingers. Sausage like-ones that are so splodgy I have a self-imposed purdah on texting because I can’t press one touch screen key without spilling over into five others.
Meanwhile, predictive text is sending me on journeys into the typing unknown with words which are both inappropriate and plain rude.
I would turn the predictions off, but that’s beyond me as my fingers are too chubberlistic to get to the right place.
Annoyingly, my husband – who has a matching phone (how sweet) and much fatter fingers – has mastered the technology.
He has got himself an app called Angry Birds which catapults birds at (I think) peas and squishes them.
Since he got this I’ve lost him to level 37 out of probably 6,000 and am left alone, one angry bird with a bit of tech that is proving infuriatingly useless.
Semaphore flags for me, then.