trouser pocket and pulls out an iPhone. ‘I’ll just text him.’
By the time the sun has gone down, Cob of Bog has arrived and has pulled my poor car out of the duck pond. While he did this, I borrowed Ham’s phone and called McGifferty’s Pies to apologise for my non-attendance. Paul McGifferty was quite understanding – and agreed to speak via Skype tomorrow afternoon. He seemed to take great pity on me when I explained what had happened. I guess if someone tells you they couldn’t get to their appointment with you because they drove into a duck pond, you kind of have to give them the benefit of the doubt.
Ham asked me why I had no phone of my own, so I had to explain the digital detox to him.
He nodded when I’d finished my story. ‘Yep. I know what you mean. I spent way too much of my time playing that there Crossy Road on the toilet. Gave me piles, it did.’
‘Sounds painful.’
‘Yep. Sure was. Cob over there still has one of those old Nokia phones. Does nothing except make phone calls and send texts. He’s never had piles, as far as I’m aware.’ Ham nods sagely and gives me a meaningful look. ‘I’d say what you’re doing is a bloody good thing there, Andy. Your arse will thank you for it.’
Quite possibly, but my car insurance premium won’t.
And neither will my prospects of holding down a job.
Today has been an unmitigated disaster, all thanks to my attempts to live a tech-free life.
I don’t get back in my front door until after midnight.
The journey with the AA guy was interminable, as he drove very slowly (for an AA guy, anyway) and liked to listen to late-night Radio 4. By the time we arrived in my street, I’d endured a documentary about tectonic plate movement, a study of Russian art from the nineteenth century, and the recollections of a pumpkin farmer. This last one – you’ll be amazed to discover – mainly involved recollecting pumpkins.
I end the day with a large glass of wine. I never normally drink this late, but I’ve earned it, I think. No one should have to get through an entire day where they miss a job interview, ruin their car and have a run-in with a self-aware duck, without some kind of alcohol to cushion the blow.
As I sit here on my couch, letting the tension of the day slowly seep out of me as the wine seeps in, I try very hard to justify continuing the detox, given the detrimental effect it’s had on my work today.
If I don’t have a job, I’m likely to be a hell of a lot more stressed and have a lot more sleepless nights than have been caused by my reliance on technology.
I know I made a promise to myself (and Fergus, in a roundabout way) to see this detox through, but for all the good it’s doing me physically, the cost might just be too damn high.
As I get to the bottom of the glass, I resolve to keep the detox going for the time being – but it had better not lead me into any more sticky situations!
Mind you, what could be worse than a day spent going insane in the Mendips?
If we peer into the future, we will see that the answer to this question involves a toilet window and the local police force.
You might want to strap yourselves in . . .
Chapter Six
DATING AND THE DEEP STATE
It has now been a shameful eleven months since my last romantic encounter.
Nearly a year since I had the pleasure of a woman’s company.
The woman in question was Christa, and we met on Tinder – back during a time when I was allowed to use such a thing.
Christa was quite nice. I didn’t have much time to assess her further than that, as we only went on two dates. The second one did end with a heavy make-out session on the bonnet of her Mazda, though. There wasn’t a third date. I can’t for the life of me remember why, right now.
Christa was not the first lady I have met this way.
In fact, I’ve had a series of four dalliances with women – all thanks to swiping right.
All of them were quite nice.
. . .
. . . . . .
Sadly, there’s not a lot else I can say, if I’m being brutally honest. Tinder is an excellent way to make the process of meeting women easy,