My mobile phone decided that as spring was definitely on the horizon it would do the opposite to the rest of the sentient world and die on me.

It didn't exactly breathe its last in a blaze of glory.

It kept whingeing at me, telling me I had deprived it of its food - a thing called a SIM card - and it was going on strike if I didn't feed it one immediately. I was totally foxed, as I wouldn't know a SIM card if it bit me on the ankle.

I certainly had not deprived my phone of any spare parts. I fed the battery lots of lovely juicy electricity but it still sulked.

I have a theory about mechanical things when they play me up. I remark in a loud voice, well within hearing range of the offending object, that I intend to get rid of it, be it a washing machine, a car or, as in this case, a phone. Sometimes it works like a dream and the inanimate (so-called but not usually in my experience) object begins to behave impeccably, determined not to lose its comfy home. Not, however, in this case. My phone decided enough was enough and it was headed for the Great Telephone Exchange in the Sky.

In my defence let me say I only used it in emergencies so it probably died of boredom rather than overwork. I had 120 minutes of free time owing, so it was hardly slave driven.

But I had to acquire a new one to satisfy my daughter who does not think I am safe to let out on my own without a lifeline to civilisation. I nearly caused a riot when I visited the local mobile phone emporium.

The entire staff fell about laughing as they gazed in awe at my old phone. They felt it should be given to a museum as an antique, along with the charger unit.

I was hurt on my phone's behalf - after all it had given me loyal service in its day - but I cheered up considerably when they told me that I qualified for a free replacement, which turned out to be about half the size and weight of my old one.

Small maybe but its possibilities were endless apparently. I couldn't take all of it in at the shop but felt confident that half an hour alone with the book of words would show me how to turn it on at the very least. Turning it off might take a bit longer.

Later that day I had a visit from my honorary grandson. "Look," said I proudly, "I've got a new phone." Within seconds he was telling me how to do everything but cook the supper with my new toy. It has properties which will keep me occupied for the whole of the train trip to London.

He tried several ringing tones, playing a couple of the games hidden within its depths and told me how to set up a phone directory. I never cease to be astounded at the young today and their ability to fathom the most up-to-date technical things. But there might yet be hope for me.

Apparently there are statistics to show that we, the Silver Surfers, create almost one fifth of the internet traffic but I have to admit with shame that so far I am still in the infants class and my school report would say: "Tries hard but is not very bright."

If you should see me wrestling helplessly with my phone as I try to alert my daughter to the fact that my train is late yet again, please take pity on me if you are one of the wired-up generation.

I'm more to be pitied than blamed.