The Secret Life of a Phone

I don't think my phone ever intended to end up in my ownership. It thwarts my every attempt to master its technical wizardry. The 'email push' function pushes all my emails off the edge of a cliff. At least once a week, the date reverts to May 22nd 2009 or flips forward to September. Calendar dates roll mysteriously on to the next day so I am woken up by a 'reminder' at 1am that it is Blossom's nursery photo yesterday.

But most telling is the predictive text. That is the surest sign that my Nokia E63 should really be owned by a childfree executive with a busy social life and the technical ability of Bill Gates rather than a country mum of two.

Before I have got three letters in, 'milk' becomes 'million', 'children' become 'chilled', 'heat' becomes 'Heathrow' and so a mundane text about my mundane life potentially becomes a thrillingly expensive jaunt to a chilled out luxury destination.

The only reassurance that it might be my phone after all is when 'bath' becomes 'battle'.