I switched off my phone at midnight, Sunday, sighed, and went to sleep.
The first effect of this experiment was rather unforeseen, but seemed to mete out justice rather poetically. I was late for work!
My phone is the only alarm clock that works for me. My subconscious responds with the alert optimism shown to a missed call.
And the persistence -- it keeps ringing even after I fling a couple of things at it, furiously pushing most buttons at random.
I scrambled to work, picking up a candy bar for breakfast, cursing the darned job.
Walking out of the house without your phone is a more surreal experience than you can imagine.
You constantly feel like you have forgotten something, and the lack of rectangular weight in the pocket of your jeans niggles incompletely at you.
There is a feeling of nakedness. Like when you are 15 and, for some unfathomable reason, are outdoors without your wristwatch.
With it, of course, comes vulnerability.
The wristwatch analogy is particularly apt at this juncture. Owing to the phone's constant presence, I have stopped wearing one.
It's a false, self-consolatory bit of bravado, perhaps, but I feel a bare wrist is better than a compromised wrist.
Now since a scribe's meagre salary doesn't allow me to realistically peek at Seamasters [a high end watch brand], the wrist has been fashionably bare.
And, when needed to check the time, I flip out my phone like a pocketwatch.
Now, of course, I was unarmed, and realised I would indeed have to revert back to my cut-rate timepiece.
