Why I don’t want to be available all the time

I’m getting you a mobile phone.” Not an earthshattering statement in itself, but I need to explain the context. I hadn’t been married too long; we had just shifted countries, and were down to one income. The economic environment was gloomy, and the prospect of a job, not promising for me.

I didn’t need a phone. I was determined to walk and cycle everyday on the lovely East Coast beaches of Singapore. The libraries were groaning with books, easily accessible and I was sure I’d find plenty to usefully occupy myself. “Why do I need a phone? You should get one for yourself,” I said. My husband’s response was, “So I’ll know where you are.”

What?! Crash of cymbals. Stop the music. Why on earth did he need to keep tabs on me? “That absolutely decides it. I definitely do not want a phone,” I fumed. In time, we both had handphones, and could both be reached when required. It kept us, shall we say, mobile.

Every able-bodied man in Singapore is conscripted into national service, and is on call 365 days a year up to the age of 40. So all around me, I could see a small black device — a pager — on every gentleman’s person. You’d be watching a movie and some obscure numbers would start flashing on the top right corner of the screen. The pagers would start buzzing. They were call signs to different units to start mobilising for training. Each person had a certain amount of time to report in. You’d see darkened figures get up and start moving out of the hall quietly. An army conditioned and ready for action. It was all quite exciting. Fact is, the discipline was required in that context and they

I can be reached in so many different ways, it’s scary. I’m outflanked by so many groups, it’s becoming distinctly antisocial media. The ubiquitous phone snaps its fingers at me, and I jump at every single chirp and burp for attention

were ready to be called up. Round the clock.

Cut to today: I can be reached in so many different ways, it’s scary. I’m outflanked by so many groups, it’s becoming distinctly antisocial media. The ubiquitous phone snaps its fingers at me, and I jump at every single chirp and burp for attention.

I speak with a friend who works in a bank that put the word private in private banking. He is available round the clock — sleeps with his phone under the pillow — so he is available to pick up a call from any timezone. I am incredulous. “Why would you do it?” He stretches on the lovely terrace garden at his home in Downtown Dubai. “That’s easy,” he says with a smile. “They pay me cartfuls of money to be available.”

Money? I goggle at him. That doesn’t cut the mustard. I like mustard, mind you, but I can’t puncture a snore mid-snore to snap to attention whenever the Grand Pumpkin (thank-you Simpsons) calls. I argue about this over lunch, and a tallish colleague grins at me and says, ‘Right, you don’t usually respond to messages on your phone.’ Someone’s lobbed a ping at me from the next cubicle. It’s the pong of the pings that is causing my pallor.

Do all my gadgets own me? I feel like a poodle on a leash, being trotted around by all my gadgets. I’m available in the service of things that merrily (ir)radiate their influence into every aspect of my life. See me, show me, display me, view me, like me.

Is it so hard to believe? I don’t want to be to be available all the time. I don’t have to be ‘liked’ all the time — oh wait, that one’s easy. Never mind, don’t call me, I’ll call you.