Please hold the line

I think it was either Sooty or Karl Marx who said that Science and Democracy were the equal halves of the move from the world of necessity to freedom. Now I think about it, Sooty wasn’t much of a talker so it was almost certainly Marx. Or Oprah… I knew that year of Uni Philosophy would come in handy.

Putting democracy to one side for a moment, as appears to be the order of the day around the world, you can certainly see his point when it comes to science and technology.

Anyone who writes a blog probably feels they are excercising their freedom of thoughts. If you log on to Facebook or Twitter every tech-savvy boy and girl in the land gives a 24/7 live-update of their status in concise, 12-word packages the likes of which haven’t been seen since the CIA and Watergate.

Now, I’m no luddite and I’ve embraced all of the above, but please forgive me if you ever try and contact me on the telephone.

There are few things in life that strike a great fear into me. A programme narrated by Janet Street Porter. The thought of watching an episode of Big Brother. Wallpapering. Leek and potato soup. All of these make me weak at the knees and more scared than someone who’s just found out their nextdoor neighbour is a nuclear physicist trialling a new work-at-home scheme.

But for me it’s like finding out Janet Street Porter’s moving in next door with a move to Def Com 3 if my phone rings. Yes I need the latest shiny black gadget-fest phone. Yes it must have a camera capable of taking pictures of Mars, video of braodcast quality, the computing abilities of Nasa and a walkman capable of holding the entire Dylan catalogue. But to be honest I’d be happier if it was incapable of ringing.

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to people, it’s just that very few people contact you out of the blue for good reasons. My email inbox is full everyday of emails telling me of the millions I’ve won in the outer Kazakhstan State lottery, and how many milions of pounds can be put in my account before I finish my bowl of Shreddies courtesy of a crumbling republic just south of North Carolina, but very rarely do these people phone me. Out of the blue phone calls tend to begin, ‘You probably won’t be able to help me, but…’, or ‘Hi, I was given your number by…’.

Of course, I don’t need to answer my phone. And I don’t. I’ve perfected the fine art of how soon to press the button to send people to voicemail. 2 rings is too soon, but 5 is too long to wait. My friends and colleagues must now be completely used to barely finishing recording their messages on my voicemail before I call them back.

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to people, it’s just that I want to be able to answer quickly and helpfully, and this requires a moment’s thought. You remember that awkwardness four year olds have when they are handed the phone to talk to their, slightly deaf and batty Aunty Margaret? That’s me at 29. The caller could be asking me something as simple as, ‘is the sky really blue?’ and it’s like I’m being quized on a Weakest Link Special by Anne Robinson, and if I get this one wrong Janet Street Bloody Porter is going to get all the money.

The lovely Sarah of course finds this hilarious. I say ‘hilarious’. What I actually mean is she finds it incredibly irritating. She tries to calm me with her gentle shouting of ‘WHO IS IT?!?!? ANSWER IT! ANS…’, but I’ve already pressed the ‘reject’ button. And I feel guilty. I feel guilty because I’ve rejected someone who wants to talk to me. And as Carrie Bradshaw says so often, rejection is a bad thing. What I really want is a ‘sorry, I’ll get back to you in a minute button’. Or a ‘just hang on a minute’ button.

But maybe I’m worrying over nothing. Maybe Marx was right, and science is giving me my freedom. If Marx had had a mobile he wouldn’t have answered it. He’d have been thinking…