I’m an addict. A desperate slave, wriggling and fiddling with the fingers of my iPhone, and it’s an addiction for which there is no 12-step program.
My smartphone is the worst thing that has ever happened to my concentration, social skills, and creativity, but without it in my hand I feel like an amputee.
At first – like any addiction, I suppose – it seemed harmless. All that freedom and 24/7 entertainment! Gone are the dark, Neanderthal days of slow dial-up, waiting for hell to freeze over while your modem tries to connect.
With my iPhone I would never get lost abroad again. You would never need to consult an AZ in London again. I could work anywhere, keep in touch with my kids, shop and find out who won Strictly, all at the touch of a button.
Best of all, I was never alone while I had my phone. Until, suddenly, I couldn’t stand being alone without him.
People talk about the dangers of social media for the young and vulnerable, and the Government is considering banning it for under-16s, but it’s also a minefield for us older and supposedly wiser people.
My phone has become such an important part of my daily life that I recently watched my two-year-old grandson Rory tapping his finger as if scrolling across a large yellow Duplo block, while carrying on a mumbling conversation using my replacement lenses.
After quitting smoking (several times) when I was 20, I knew suddenly it was the only way to go. So, two weeks ago, I decided to switch to a so-called “dumb phone,” one that would allow me to make and receive calls, but would keep me away from Instagram and Facebook.
My smartphone is the worst thing that has ever happened to my concentration, social skills and creativity, but without it in my hand I feel like an amputee, writes Marion McGilvary.
Having been buried under a rock of mindless Internet browsing for so long, I was surprised to find that a Siri-enabled search generated several options.
The latest and most expensive model, £250, but top-rated for those thinking about doing a digital detox this New Year, is the simple, sleek and minimalist Punkt MP02, loved by hipsters around the world despite look like a pocket calculator.
I charged the phone and the immediate ability to make and receive calls appeared. However, I was unable to sync any text messages from my iPhone or pair the phone to my MacBook so I could receive emails. I threw in the metaphorical towel and almost threw the damn dumb phone at the wall.
Do I really need the Internet? I asked myself. Isn’t this what I’m trying to stop doing? Isn’t the point of this exercise simply to have a phone for absolutely necessary phone calls? Do I need emails available? When I’m working I can tell people to call me.
So I gave up, entered my children’s and partner’s numbers (another long tap tap tap process dating back to 1978) and headed out into the big, wide, internet-less world equipped with a basic walkie-talkie.
Five days later, the only call I received was from the dentist and the phone had already run out of battery twice.
I knew my biggest time waster was social media, but God, without it it’s hard to live in the lonely land of the dumb phone. Suddenly, I had two hours a day back. I seriously thought about taking up knitting to give my hands something to do. This is how I quit smoking 20 years ago: knitting ugly sweaters.
Instead, I put a book in my bag. I normally read on the Kindle app on my phone and haven’t touched a physical book since before lockdown. I even trust Amazon to not buy the same book twice.
The latest model and most expensive ‘dumb phone’, priced at £250, but the most valued for those thinking about doing a digital detox this New Year, is the simple, elegant and minimalist Punkt MP02.
Marion decided to keep her iPhone, but deleted all social media and the Google icon.
I had forgotten how annoying “real” books are. Hardcover books are heavy. If you fall asleep reading them in bed they hit you in the nose. Should I buy a Kindle? I asked myself. But isn’t that just another device?
I used to write fiction. I have one published novel and several unfinished ones languishing on my laptop that simply need editing. But thanks to phone-induced ADHD, my brain thinks it has become redundant and the Internet is another lobe I can access if I need to know something.
As a result, I no longer have the concentration or the will to filter the prose. I don’t even feel like writing if I’m honest. It requires concentration and I don’t have any.
My mind is that of a three-year-old with a sugar high. However, I do add a notebook and pen to my bag to jot down all those clever one-liners I’m going to come up with now that I’m not arguing with strangers on X.
The Punkt phone also has a notes feature, but it’s easier to jot down my grocery list on paper than to type everything out with the tappity-tap keys. What an analogy, I compliment myself as I walk through Waitrose.
Everything is fine until I get to pay and realize I don’t have Apple Pay. This is a real problem: since I went digital, I actually have no idea where my physical debit cards are.
I have to use real money that my partner lent me and then, horrors, start using a real purse.
So now I carry my entire life in a handbag instead of having everything on a 3×6 inch tablet.
When I encounter a traffic jam on the way home, there is no Google Maps to show me an alternative route. Yes, I can print a map if I need to go somewhere unknown, but so far Epson is not predicting accidents on the A34. When my grandson does something nice I can’t take a picture of him. I can’t do Wordle. My palms start to itch.
I feel like I’m in the movie Trainspotting, but with social media withdrawal instead of heroin. I’m sorry for the image-centric Instagram and cute husky videos. I want the saved posts of recipes I never cook; and tips for zippers I’ll never sew on dresses I’ll never make.
Because? When was the last time you needed to fold an origami crane or master the art of Japanese wrapping paper in an emergency? Instagram has become my proxy life. I’d rather look at pictures of home improvements than paint the walls and look at bulbs instead of planting the ones I bought.
I naively imagined that a dumb phone would be the answer to this obsession, and it helped. I dark traded with my Facebook friends for three weeks, but it was agony.
And what I hadn’t realized was that along with obsessive scrolling, I was also giving up all the added benefits of my smartphone. It’s cold and isolated in the silly world of phones. Saving my children’s numbers was a wasted effort.
Everyone under 40 thinks a phone call is a violation of privacy, like joining them in the shower uninvited. They don’t answer calls. They message in the family WhatsApp group, and even that mostly consists of a thumbs-up emoji response to my messages.
No one has noticed my breakup on social media. My virtual friends, most of them friends of friends I met through Facebook, didn’t miss me. Instead, I had some long phone calls with real-life friends, but I still missed my online community. I’m not sure I can hack life with a dumb phone.
Yes, there are advantages. I have not bought anything online. I even did my taxes and finally planted my tulip bulbs, but I can’t hack modern life without the New York Times crossword puzzle and Uber.
So I’m keeping my iPhone, but I deleted all social media and the Google icon.
Otherwise, I still have apps for necessities like bus tickets and parking, which is almost impossible any other way. I have my camera, my banking, and my cards in my Apple Wallet. Tidy.
I allow myself to check social media on a prehistoric iPad for ten minutes a day to check on the huskies. But without any movement.