It’s cheaper to change my name legally than fork out for another new iPhone

Afinal word on the phone, before I draw a line under the whole unfortunate business and make a wretched attempt to move on with my life. For those who missed the sorry saga, here’s the salient story so far: being a person whose head has never been turned by a phone, I have eked every last second of life out of all the devices I’ve ever had before reluctantly changing them, every five years or so. My phone has frequently been a talking point amongst family and friends and never, ever in a good way.

Anyway, a couple of months ago, the latest ancient iPhone decided it would no longer receive text messages on my behalf and started informing me that it was lost on the side of the Blessington Road. A new model was clearly in order and, horrified by the cost of new iPhones, I bought a reconditioned one for €400. Less than a week after I commissioned the shiny new arrival, I dropped it down the toilet and then promptly fried its soggy circuit board by plugging it in. The nice man in the kiosk suggested the bowl of rice trick but didn’t hold out much hope for a happy outcome. And lo and behold, he was proved right.

But I wouldn’t let it go. For this thrifty phone owner, four hundred euros for five days of a phone — not to mention another four hundred to replace the confounded thing — just wouldn’t wash. So I brought the moribund mobile money pit back down to the man in the kiosk, who took it for a sleepover and then declared he could replace the circuit board for €120.

Three days later the phone was alive again, a miracle I celebrated by immediately dropping it on the driveway, smashing every part of its fragile shiny casing apart from the screen, which I’d paid an extra €80 for, and which dutifully just splintered like a windscreen hit by a loose chipping.

Amazingly though, the phone still worked. Now, the only problem was that every time I received any sort of notification, instead of a sharp ping, the phone emitted a tone that sounded like a cricket was dying within its shattered case. Honestly, if I had selected ‘nails on a blackboard’ as a ring tone, it couldn’t have made a more unpleasant sound.

Then it decided I didn’t need to hear phone calls any more. Every time the phone rang, I connected to an unearthly void while the people on the other end listened to a pathetic medley of me waiting, breathing, apologising and swearing.

Back to the man in the kiosk. It’s the speaker, he advised, looking at the shattered state of it and clearly considering some serious questions about my lifestyle. It needs a new speaker. And even though the shiny new circuit board was under guarantee (unlike the rest of the phone), this new problem had nothing to do with the last one and would involve another sleepover and cost another €75. When I went down to collect it, he advised me to buy a case to protect what’s left of the contraption. I asked for the cheapest one he had and in a gesture of kindness and profound pity, he sold me a €20 cover for just €5.

So that is where I am at. My new iPhone is completely smashed, sounds like a cricket’s death throes and has so far cost me €600. Yesterday I noticed that it doesn’t like me texting the letter ‘f’ — demanding that I press the screen hard at least three times before it will begrudgingly accept my request — and so I am resigned not to communicate f-words any more even though there are currently quite a lot of them I’d like to express. Also, my name starts with f, which presumably means even more trouble ahead.

I’ve checked out the cost of changing my name legally and it’s just €60, which is considerably cheaper than a new iPhone. So I reckon that’s the way I’ll go. As to the bigger picture, having spent most of my adult life trying desperately to hold back the sands of time, I now can’t wait to be 60 so that I can change my phone. You don’t have to wait five years to change your phone, the kids have counselled, but they are over-indulged, instant gratification snowflakes who know nothing of the exquisite misery of living long-term with something that makes you shudder in nauseous horror every time it bleeps and won’t allow you to string a few simple expletives together. Something tells me it’s going to be a long five years.