Running to catch the train for the morning commute, I am thinking - oh late again, quick, quick, panic. It's too far down the road to turn back when I realise, my phone! So I continue, I can't be late again. Giving single parents a bad reputation, all these rush rush mornings. It's on my mind, what if I miss a very important call? An emergency? A prize draw? What did we all do before the 1990's when we didn't all have a million mobile phones?
My usual journey to work. It's not that big a deal is it? I will be fine for one day, ignoring the withdrawal symptoms and the sudden urge to pop in the earphones and play music. Using my phone for music is convenient to prevent boredom, stop people talking to me, and keep my random thoughts at bay.
Instead, I think about how Londoners don't talk, I think about communication, the art of communication and how we have evolved into this society . I think about my postmodernism lectures at university and the definition of the new term and "virtual world." I remember that I have a journal and that I also left that at home. I take out my diary instead. The diary that is blank because all my reminders are in my phone. Was there anything I needed to remember? I think about all the lovely messages that I may possibly get on my phone when I return to it later. Only because I have not the chance to check it every second as I normally do. Maybe this is a good thing, I need merely to apologise for missing a call should someone desperately try to reach me today and only today and not have my work number.
Only yesterday, I was thinking about what else to blog about. The art of communication now electronic format still halted by the dreaded writers block. I continue to write my shopping list in my empty diary, with my trusty pen.
Abi the fashion blogger