When I was fourteen years old all I could think about were mobile phones. I couldn’t concentrate, I would come home and I wouldn’t watch TV, I wouldn’t do my homework I would just sit in my room thinking about mobile phones. Is my mobile phone too small? Is it too big? Does the size of my mobile phone correlate to the size of my breasts? I must go out and buy a bigger, more spherical mobile phone. Maybe a new one in a flip-up format, or a slide-along format or the classic ‘brick’ format. I will get a new sim card and my hair will be shinier. I’ll just change to pay as you go and experience extreme elation and better eyebrows. Succulent technology. The car phone warehouse was my sex shop, my old fashioned sweet store. All those mouth watering buttons and dials, smooth and shiny and clean in pastel colours in white and black. I just want to put them in my mouth and feel them against my tongue, soft and sugary, I bet the motorola Moto Q space bar tastes like sugared almonds. I want to gorge on a blackberry, on an orange monthly contract, on a new apple mac. Seductively, futuristically cool, eluding shiny white coolness, intrinsically cool. “You will never be this cool” it whispers “you can try but you can’t”. Smiley. Wink face. Tongue sticking out wink face.
Now at seventeen I have grown. I have matured. I have spent ten pounds on a new phone and it calls and texts and nothing else. No mega pixel camera, no broadband, no facebook app. None of that hardcore, Class A material. Oh no, it’s only the soft stuff from now on for me. I'm on the straight and sober. Sometimes I’ll be on the tube and someone will whip out a new Samsung and a slightly thrill will run through me, a tiny blip of adrenaline but then I remind myself firmly: That isn’t what you need, that isn’t what you want. Everything you will ever need is right here in your hand. I glance down at my archaic black and white screen and dyslexic-friendly buttons and very, very nearly kid myself I’m right. ∆