Assisted Mobile Suicide or Accidental Murder?

I have a brand spanking new phone. It is a little over a month old, and it is beautiful. Having been too terrified and ignorant to take the all-too-brave step of swapping to Sony Ericsson and therefore following the path of the rest of my family, I had opted for yet another Nokia.

We were getting along just fine. I wasn't wonderfully happy that it seemed to resist learning any new words unlike my old phone (maybe it was opposed to gratuitous swearing and the consistent use of the words 'warm ribena' in text messages, maybe it felt it had a higher calling, it certainly refused point blank to help me out when I was attempting to spell a word but couldn't quite get it right, its tiny chips glaring at me from deep within the casing as if to say 'you don't know how to spell THAT?').

But other than that, we were going to be the best of friends.

With thanks to my boyfriend I'd mastered the art of bluetooth, and was swapping images and tunes beneath my phone and my laptop like there was no tomorrow. I even had an mp3 as my alarm. Bearing in mind this is coming from someone who is terrified of the mere thought of programming a video player (please kindly avoid that correlation and my fear of all things technical and my current career path), I was really rather impressed with myself. I'd filmed one (incredibly dull) video and even (accidentally) recorded some background noise with the sound recorder. I was a master at taking photos and was sending them to friends and family like there was no tomorrow.

And, most importantly, it was my lifeline between myself and my boyfriend.

Upgrading my phone was a commitment I had spent many an hour debating. So much so that by the time I came to upgrade my phone and take that big step into the world of modern technology, it was over a year past my original upgrade date.

I was so embracing of this upgrade and my move into new territory I even bought a bluetooth set for the car (which, thankfully, considering the circumstances, I have still yet to figure out. All I can make it do is the startup tune and then it just blinks at me expectantly).

But, alas, it was not to be. I don't know if it was me, whether it was bitterly disappointed by the misuse its owner, clearly an idiot, was going to endure it to over the coming 18 months of the contract she had stapled myself to.

Maybe this bitter accident was merely that: an accident.

But somehow I'm struggling to believe that it didn't help its exit a little (I could admit that I'm a clumsy fool but my anger has yet to subside and its best I aim it at the defenseless gadget that won't turn on to dignify me with any sort of response or explanation for its hasty departure than actually blame myself).

It had to happen while I was cleaning of all things. The amount of times my old phone resisted the toilet and precariously placed glasses of water was quite astounding. I really thought if it was going to go, it'd be one of them, at least. The law of averages seemed evident of that.

But no. When I came to drain the sink of bleach (oh yes, it was going out in style) after cleaning the bathroom, my beautiful new phone stared blankly up at me. I knew I was losing it then.

I carried it, whimpering and yelling to myself desperately, into my room and tried desperately to rip its cover off, all the time watching its poor screen filling up slowly with bleach infused water, feeling the drips come out of its case onto my hands. Eventually I wrenched it off and spread out its innards on the duvet. Everything was wet.

I should have known then it was gone. It had been under for a good few minutes. I realised I must have accidentally knocked it off at some point, but I thought the bang had just been a bottle of cleaning fluids onto the floor.

How wrong I'd been.

My SP rushed to my rescue, reassuring me that she had resurrected phones many times before from seemingly dire situations. We nursed it, wrapping it up in a blanket and placing it inside the airing cupboard, hoping.

Two days passed. I got on with things. My sim at least was salvaged and I am currently borrowing my SP's work handset (although I hadn't, until today, had the will to program any settings other than the default, while that tiny flicker of hope was alive). Then yesterday, feeling brave, I went to retrieve it, to see if a miracle had happened.

My phone wasn't there (this is unfolding to be some sort of bizarre modernisation of the Easter Story...). The towel it had been wrapped in was, but all the pieces were missing.

I spoke to my SP later that day. She looked at me sadly and I knew. She had tried the phone, bless her, to spare me of the disappointment. And: Absolutely bugger all.

Today, in one last ditch attempt, I tried the on button for the last time.

That little bugger. Absolutely bloody nothing. Not a sausage.

If I report this idiotic crime to Orange, they will charge me £5 a month insurance for the priviledge of replacing my phone, for the rest of my 18 month contract (thus paying for the phone itself in that time). So, I am awaiting the arrival of my old phone, that I'd packed away in a box, to gather dust for eternity (or until someone I knew did something stupid with their phone). At least I get the beautifully crafted rendition of the Indiana Jones theme tune back as my ring tone.

I am trying to deduce the moral of this story, and whether my phone had any influence over its destiny (maybe it will rise up again as some technological God or, perhaps, a very small Darth Vader. Now that's a thought.).

All I have managed to extract from this tale are two possible morals:

1. I should possibly stop being so clumsy and taking electrical items near water and/or bleach (that should apply to any form of liquid really but I don't want to impose too many restrictions);
2. I should never clean the bathroom again

While I feel that, perhaps, what intelligence I have (which is obviously limited as this post clearly demonstrates) is leaning more to point 1., I have a feeling I'd rather opt for the latter.