A Tale of the Unexpected

Pre-internet halcyon days and my complicated relationship with mobile phones.

“My phone and I haven’t got an attached at the hip relationship”. That’s what I would have said about a month ago if you had asked how I felt about my mobile phone. I would have expanded by adding something like “It’s handy for making the odd call and looking up synonyms and I use it for taking passably good photos, but it’s not a vital appendage to my right hand”.

I realised the hard way a few years ago that prolonged over-use caused me more mental harm than good, resulting in me making a conscious effort to reduce my screen time. Having supposedly corrected the error of my ways, I was shocked at the rush of panic I felt a few weeks ago when I arrived home from shopping to find my phone wasn’t in my bag. A few telling beads of sweat appeared and an unpleasant feeling of nausea rose up in my throat at the possibility, that this time, it was indeed lost forever. Luckily, it turned out that I had left it by the till in the supermarket and had been handed in to lost property, so all was well.

Still, that feeling of dread made me realise just how attached to this slim slither of metal and computer chips I had become. Whichever way I looked at it, my phone had wheedled its way back into my life more than I was prepared to admit. Perhaps those adverts for products I apparently need in my 63 year old life; SAGA holidays, hair thickeners and funeral plans, were making me feel my phone really cared. A reliable friend who wouldn’t let me down, on hand 24 hours a day for everything I desired from a medical diagnosis of a new ache or next day delivery of a spanglethrocket. I had obviously become hooked again.

Action was needed, a conscious uncoupling if you like, at least a break from being constantly reminded of my age, the dire state of the world and how many people ‘like’ me. Strategies so far to curtail my phone dependency have included not picking it up every time I leave a room just in case I miss yet another hoax message or email. In the evening, when I am relaxing with Michael, I purposely leave my mobile in another room, out of temptations way. Turning the pages of a book has now replaced bedtime scrolling and unless I need an alarm in the morning, which is rare these days, all devices stay downstairs, out of sight and out of mind. Sleep, that most precious commodity, has become easier to find. Better ways to use my time are being found too, this publication for instance is a much more productive way to spend an afternoon rather than watching increasingly desperate dog rescue videos on You Tube. Writing on this platform has quickly become something I value and enjoy, it’s joyous to know people are reading and listening to my posts. Thank you.

I am not some fusty old Luddite clinging to the past who regards all progress as unnecessary or detrimental to mankind. Of course mobile phones and the internet have made huge improvements to our lives, the benefits are far too long to list, I wouldn’t be writing on Substack for a start. A quick ‘Google’ and we can find out how to play the guitar or how to mend a washing machine. Anything we need it seems, from a partner in love to a dance partner is all there, on a small device, right in front of our noses. However, in that pre-Google world long ago, when instant information meant going to the library or reading a daily newspaper, there were benefits too and one of them was we learnt to problem solve on the hoof. Without help being a quick phone call or a browser search away, we had no option but to figure things out on our own, equipped with nothing more than a bit of common sense and a voice.

A holiday from 1979 comes to mind when a mobile phone with Google, GPS and information at my fingertips would have been a great help, but on the other hand would have taken away something from an experience that was both an exciting teenage adventure and a very sharp lesson in growing up.

Shortly after my eighteenth birthday I plucked up the courage to ask my parents if I could borrow the family car for a road trip, a little three week jaunt over to the South of France. I had recently passed my driving test and with the naive confidence of an eighteen year old, thought a one hour long drive from East London to Canvey Island was all the practice I needed to navigate to the French Riviera and back, a round trip of some 2,000 miles. To this day, I have never fully understood why my Mum and Dad said yes, but they did, an act of faith that I never, ever forgot and still remain thankful for some 45 years later. In hindsight and with the benefit of age, I now understand they must have been petrified.

In the summer of that year, me and my two good friends, sisters Gill aged 17 and Jenny, 19, waved goodbye to our parents and set off to Dover to catch the ferry to Calais. I was the only one out of the trio who could drive, we had no plans of where we were going to stay (there was no Airbnb in those days), a smattering of ‘O’ level French between us and a crisp new, folded paper map of France; everything we needed to get us to those exotic sounding places we had only read about in magazines or seen in films.

After a pretty hairy journey through winding mountainous roads, we arrived in one piece and soon managed to find a large but inexpensive apartment for rent in the foothills of Cannes, almost certainly an impossibility nowadays. The three of us had an absolute ball for a week, carefree young things in our 1950’s swimsuits, listening to the sound track to The Wanderers as we drove to different beaches up and down the coast. Until one evening, after a particularly hot day, we were driving into town when Jenny suddenly became very ill. Her legs had completely seized up so she was unable to get out of the car let alone walk, huge bunches of blisters had started to develop on her neck, she was shivering terribly and obviously very unwell. Somehow we managed to find the nearest hospital, where Jenny was admitted and treated for sunstroke which was very frightening for us all, especially Jenny no doubt. The doctors advised us that Jenny needed somewhere away from the extreme heat to recuperate so the next day Gill and I visited a tourist office where a very kind lady helped us find a farmhouse up in the cooler hills where Jenny could recover whilst being cared for by the English speaking farmer’s wife, an ex-nurse. Thankfully, with good care, within a week Jenny was feeling much better. After a trip to the hospital to have her bandages removed she was allowed to venture out with Gill and I for the last week, obviously covered up fully and with strict instructions to stay hydrated and out of the sun.

Vintage swimming costumes worn on the trip - we loved anything from the 50’s at the time. I kept these for years but sadly they were badly damaged by a mouse in the loft last year. I still have very happy memories of them though.

During that last week we managed to squeeze in all the places we wanted to see. We sat and drank fresh lemonade under the cool shade of the pine trees in Juan-les-Pins. In Monaco, I remember sitting on a café terrace and being transfixed by lady walking a white rabbit on a lead attached to a sparkling diamond collar. The highlight of the trip for me was seeing David Niven walk out of the grand Hôtel de Paris, stopping briefly on the steps to breathe in the very expensive air. All too soon it was time to make our way back to Old Blighty. Despite Jenny being ill, it was the most wonderful, unforgettable adventure, we arrived home safe and sound, three weeks older but a lot, lot wiser. And my Dad was very happy to see me and his bottle green Ford Cortina back in one piece.

In those three weeks, we didn’t phone home once.

Me in France, wearing the pink swimming costume in the picture above, pretending to be Brigitte Bardot I think, as you do when you’re eighteen. The only photo I have from that holiday.

Perhaps I am just seeing my youth through rose tinted glasses, it wasn’t all great by any means, we had clingy nylon clothes, the miner’s strikes and Jimmy Savile but we also had much more freedom to explore on our own without constant questions of “Where are you” and “What are you doing?” Worst of all, well meaning but ceaseless reminders to “Be careful”, an important message when warranted but when overused, as it so often these days, they are two words guaranteed to dull the spirit of adventure.

I don’t envy the youth of today and wouldn’t want to be in my 20’s or 30’s in the unsettled world we are living in at the moment. Being 63 with all that brings with it, grey hair, sagging jowls and slightly dodgy knees suits me fine. Life so far has been full of adventures. Even the not so happy ones, and there have been many, have taught me lessons that are woven into the fabric of the person I am today. I will continue to embrace the new, stay connected and take an interest in what the younger generation is up to, but my phone needs to take a back seat. Life is so much more than what’s behind that 3”x 5” screen. Life is for living, not for watching.

Lots of love,

Lindsey. x