I love my iPhone. I really do. I make full use of all the apps. I am a particularly big fan of the Tube Exits one which tells me which carriage to get on so that I can disembark right by the exit - I know! It's amazing! I really don't know how I would every get anywhere without Google Maps that regularly leads me to my required destination much like a parent holding my hand. I'm not sure how I found my way around without that app.
Another big favourite for me is the G-Park. Let me explain. I am the kind of woman who can plan with military precision the afternoon's events. I can collect children from school, arrange play-dates and ferry them to swimming. I can make sure my sister's birthday card and present arrive on time and remind my mother about her hospital appointments. I can remind Mr Wendy of the name of his boss's daughter and cook a three-course meal for six but I cannot, and I repeat, cannot for the life of me remember where I park the bloody car. I seem to have a mental block. When the man you love takes another call from you, in tears because you lost the car, it's frustrating for him. He wants to make everything right. And he did. He found me G-Park. When I park the car I punch the location in on my phone and it leads me back there. Brilliant.
I also love that my phone texts me when my parking is about to expire and that the IMDB app lets me check what the name of that actor I can't remember is. It is a fantastic piece of machinery and I am in awe to the people who have come up with all those remarkable little things that make my life so much easier to manage. There are apps for absolutely everything, from entertaining a toddler to having the weekly shop delivered.
However I have a problem. Before I begin this rant I hold my hands up. You should know that I'm a hypocrite. I indulge in this behaviour but I will hate, hate, hate it when you do.
When we sit down at the end of the day to snuggle on the sofa after the kids have gone to bed, I might have a look at Twitter or Facebook. When Mr Wendy does this, it pisses me off royally. Is my company not enough? Do you need to be talking to your 500 friends or 300 followers? Really? What about me? This is of course neglecting the fact that I am happy to be chatting away making smart-arse comments about what Tess Daly is wearing or how shit that advert is. It's almost as if there is another person in the room. A person so addictive that it's difficult to exclude them from this lovely moment we are - not, let's face it - sharing together. This technology that makes my life easier also seems to be infringing on my face-to-face relationships with people that I love.
It gets worse. We go to bed and charge our phones by the side of our beds. I use the alarm on the phone to wake me up. If Mr Wendy wakes up and checks Twitter before he says "good morning" to me I am furious for the rest of the day. I may well have been on Twitter when he woke up but I was waiting for him to wake up. It's different see? I always feel quite hurt if he's on Facebook while he's lying next to me but somehow it doesn't count if I'm doing the same thing.
Don't get me started on the number of bleeps coming through if he should 'like' or 'comment' on something. That winds me up no end. At least I've had the good grace to disable my notifications. Of course it's all wrong. There needs to be some rules put in place.
A year and a half ago I banned TV from the bedroom. Mr Wendy really enjoys watching telly and nodding off. I however favour a relationship where we do other things to get to sleep. Not long after we banned the television I fell pregnant. For me, the television leaving the room was definitely a good thing. I fear the same fate may await our iPhones.
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