On iDependence

My ongoing battle with my iPod has been well documented, but I've always been fond of my iPhone, with which I've experienced very few problems. At times I've even been proud of the little fellow; as I was when it transformed a dreadfully ordinary daytime shot of the Thames into the psychadelic masterpiece above. Alas, it would seem that this period of plain sailing has been nothing but a honeymoon period. The calm before the storm. There isn't actually anything wrong with my phone - my worries stem from a concern that it's too advanced. It knows too much.

Yesterday was a prime example. Having reconciled with my great love, Beer, and put our lovers' tiff behind us, I rang N after work to see if he fancied a pint. "Sure," he said, "where?" I was in Farringdon, N works in Old Street - there was about a mile between us. I said I'd come to him, as his office is in close proximity to très-trendy Shoreditch. Alas, I then made a grave error; I muttered the moronic phrase "I'll use my map app to figure out how to get there." BOOM. I had exposed my vulnerability. My iPhone, realising my pathetic dependence on it, swiftly - and smugly - switched itself off. The official reason given was low battery - but I know this to be untrue. The iPhone knew that without its knowledge of life, the universe and everything, I was up shit creek without a paddle.

My desperate attempts to turn it back on failed and I descended into a blind panic. My vision blurred, my head was pounding with the noise of other commuters chattering into their better-behaved mobile phones. Cursing the phone with a string of four letter words that turned the air around me blue, I darted towards a phone box; a red beacon of hope, so often ignored. I threw the door open, grabbed the phone and inserted 50p.

"60p minimum", said the little screen. "YOU BASTARD. YOU BIG RED GREEDY BASTARD." I thought. There, under the gaze of several prostitutes staring down from postcards stuck on the walls, I rifled through my ManBag for change. Success. Another pound. I rang N. Typically, there was no answer. As the money remaining decreased at an incredible speed, I left a rushed message explaining the situation and asked him to be patient - I would get there, I needed the beer - but I might be late as I had no idea where I was.

Leaving the phonebox behind, I began my trek. I happened across a streetmap showing my current location and I did something I haven't done in a long time - I read the map and, not knowing where the next map would be, I commited the street names to memory. It felt strange - I may as well have been using a compass or navigating my course by the stars. But I did it. Despite having to revert to such primitive techniques as using my own initiative, I found my way to Old Street Station where N was waiting with a pint of sweet amber nectar.

So in your face, smug iPhone, in your face. I don't need you. I love you, and enjoy having you - but I don't need you. Now, kindly update me on what's been happening in the world, check my e-mail, warn me of any tube delays and suggest a decent restaurant within 2 miles. Much obliged.

PS I've just responded to about two weeks' worth of comments on previous posts - sincerest apologies, I wasn't ignoring them! PROMISE!