As a children’s writer, I spend a lot of time communicating with other writers, schools, and the publisher for my self-published books. But I often think that I spend too much time reading and sending messages and emails. A while ago, I looked at my mobile phone and realised that almost the entire top two rows of icons were messaging services of various kinds, and it made me think about how much time each day I spend reading emails, texts, etc. I started wondering if they were all really necessary, and I had a look at which ones I had. There were text messages and emails (of course!), but also Messenger, Facebook notifications, ParentMail, Ebay notifications, WhatsApp, Twitter notifications and finally Voicemail (in case anyone should actually want to physically speak to me). A lot of them double up as well – if there are several Twitter notifications I haven’t opened yet, Twitter will send me an admonishing email telling me to look at them, and so will Facebook, ParentMail and Ebay. A lot of these notifications pop up as banners on the home screen of my phone, as well, just to make sure I don’t miss them – or at least they used to, until I realised that I could turn them off in settings. But there are so many, it’s hard to keep track.
The other day my phone started making pinging noises, which is unusual; I don’t normally like my phone to make a noise unless someone is actually ringing me. When I looked at the home screen, there right in the middle, was a notification instructing me to look at my ‘news’ app. Why? If I’ve got time on my hands and I want to read the news, I’ll do it without being prompted, thank you very much!
Sometimes it feels as though I’m a slave to all these various methods of communication, and although I can appreciate that it’s necessary, and a lot of the messages are ones that I want or need to see, it really does seem a bit much sometimes. I can’t help wondering if the great and powerful now employ not only a PA, but an additional full-time PA, whose sole job is to monitor and respond to all the various messages that arrive, every second of the day.
The dog has no such problems managing his incoming communications, or indeed, his outgoing ones. He occasionally receives cards in the post for his birthday, and when he does, he absolutely loves reading the cards and ripping up the envelopes, but usually the only communication he finds acceptable, is face-to-face. If a member of the family is away and rings up in the evening to say hello to everyone, we often hold the phone to the dog’s ear, so the absent family member can chat to him. He doesn’t think much of this at all, and will usually narrow his eyes suspiciously at the sound of the disembodied voice, before huffing loudly and stalking away to a quieter part of the room. Not for him, the task of checking and responding to messages and emails each morning – he can just get straight on to his mid-morning nap.
I’m sure that in the ‘olden days’ people weren’t bombarded with messages all the time, and they all seemed to survive well enough, most of the time. In many of the black and white films I’ve seen, boys in smart uniforms were often to be seen wandering around the lobbies of fancy hotels, shouting ‘Telegram for Mr Brown, telegram for Mr Brown!’ Of course, Mr Brown, if located, would usually give the telegram boy a generous tip for his trouble, but everyone seemed to find it perfectly acceptable that there would be some messages that they wouldn’t get until later, if then.
When I was a child most people, but not everyone, had a land-line. The hand-set for this would be rented at an astronomical cost, from the phone company, and it would sit regally on a table in the hall, from which it could never be moved. But when you were out and about, no one could get in touch with you at all. I can remember SOS messages being broadcast on Radio 4, usually along the lines of asking if Mr John Smith could please get in touch with Central Hospital, where his brother was seriously ill. I always hoped that the right person heard the message, but I knew that, sadly, there was a very good chance that many of them never did. Similarly, when, in my early twenties, I came back to London after six weeks in Thailand, I felt quite apprehensive on the plane – what if there had been a family tragedy while I’d been away? I’d had no communication with anyone in England for weeks; anything could have happened.
Thinking back to those days, I realise that instant and constant communication can be a very good and helpful thing, but surely there’s a limit somewhere to how much time each day I should spend keeping on top of it all? Anyway, enough ranting on – I can see from my phone’s home screen, that while I’ve been writing this I’ve received twelve emails – I’d better go and read them all!