So, I won this phone in a competition. I had no business entering a competition to win a £350 mobile phone in the first place seeing as I generally end up dropping them down the toilet and Rory enjoys dipping them in tubs of taramasalata in place of pitta bread. But hey ho, I won it, and several weeks on I find myself in possession of a piece of kit that wouldn't be out of place in the Gadget Show.
It has already caused me all manner of embarrassment. Firstly, I had to call the T-Mobile Indian call centre to sort my contract out, which made me want to cry. Then I had to google the name of my phone while I was talking to them because I had no idea how to pronounce it (thank you very much to the bloke who did a review of it on YouTube). Then I got the sim card stuck in the wrong orifice and had to find a pair of tweezers to extract it with while everyone in the call centre laughed at me because of course they'd put me on speaker phone. Can now never go to India.
It turns out that that exercise in humiliation was just the tip of the iceberg, because even now I've got it up and running, I still have no idea how to actually use the thing.
The first person to call me on it was the features editor of the glossy magazine who I once accidentally sent a text message to informing her that I had a slug that looked like Boris Johnson in the kitchen. We have never discussed this matter. I suspect she thinks I'm a massive tool already, an opinion that can only have been compounded after hearing me calling at my smart new phone a spawny little twat because I thought (incorrectly) I couldn't work out how to answer it. Ever professional.
Also thought I'd have a go at taking some photos with it. Attempted to take some of Rory and I together, but I looked like a potato in every single one. Rory (3) tutted, grabbed the phone, pointed it at me, somehow took a decent picture and then proceeded to edit it into cinematic black and white with a nice crackly effect over the top. HOW?
Was going to - you know - download an app or something on it. First need to find out what an app actually is, but cannot admit this to husband. And anyway, I can't even find the comma on the touch screen typepad doodah, so best not to run before I can walk.
The upshot is that I am just not cool enough for my phone. Every day it sits there, silently mocking me. I can almost imagine it shaking its head in despair at the disappointing owner inflicted upon it. It could have done so much better. If it was a man, it would be metaphorically patting me on the head and telling me I'm fun before scarpering back to its infinitely cooler ex girlfriend. If it was a band, it would be The Magnetic Fields (everyone whose taste in music I respect loves them, yet I listen to 69 Love Songs and hear only a mishmash of tuneless, self indulgent tosspottery). If it was a teenage girl it would be slagging me off behind my back about my inability to accessorize. We have a serious inferiority complex going on here.
"Show it who's boss," said one of my friends. "Don't let it know that you're scared of it. You own that phone's ass." She is right. So I decided to have a go at activating the voice commands, with the result that it now sends an email every time I say "shitshitshitbollocks" in a panicked tone of voice. I think we both know who's the boss; it's the smug little Motorola number in the corner.