Smart
phones and over 50’s do not go together. At least that’s what my teenage son
thinks.
“It’s
far too technical for you Mum. What’s the point of you having a mobile with so
many features if you only use it for texting and making calls?”
Well
pardon me for thinking that was the purpose of a mobile phone. What is really
upsetting him is that my phone is a lot better than his. Yes, I know what
you’re thinking, why don’t I just swap with him. The thing is I can see the key
pad much better on my phone without having to reach for my glasses. Well, truth be known, it’s still a problem. I
squint a lot and move my arm in and out like a periscope, hoping for a better
focus. Why do we do that?
I
do use the camera. Although the result is often better if I’ve consulted him
yet again as to which icon to press to focus in on my victim.
One
expects in old age that there will be a certain amount of role reversal; when
perhaps you’re physically not as able and the mind is a little feeble. But mobiles, iPods, the internet, blogs,
tweets, have squeezed some of us into that persona prematurely.
I’ve
been told by some my writing friends that to promote my blog and latest book, I
really do need a twitter account. I groan at the thought of it. But I still
scribble down instructions as to how to set it up. As I thought once home, the
instructions are not so clear. So once again I call from my computer
“Tom.
Please can you help me with this?” I
explain to him what I want to do. He says nothing and looks sheepishly at his
shuffling feet.
“What’s
the matter? Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
“No,
it’s a good idea, it’s just...” again he’s talking to his feet and looking very
uncomfortable.
“It’s
just that, you’re not going to follow my tweets are you?” So that’s the
problem!
Tom
had already convinced me that having a face book account would not be a good
idea; the stress of setting it up and then maintaining it, or him helping me
to. But it would seem the real worry, is that I might spy on him. (Little does
he know I have other methods of checking him out.) Having convinced him that I have no intention
of following his tweets, he gave me the necessary help, ladled with lashings of
smirking and airs of superiority. I’m thick skinned, I can handle it.
I
end with a joke sent in an email to my friend from her beloved daughter.
It
is recommended that over 50 year olds should not have babies as they would only
forget where they put them.
