Mandy Nolan’s Soapbox: it’s all about connection

I sometimes wonder how to make life simpler.

I look at the devices, meant to make our lives more convenient, but realise what a slave I’ve become to them. They’re great for efficiency but they are also time wasters. I spend a lot of time looking for my phone.

It’s a good part of most people’s day. The moment of panic when you suddenly go, ‘I can’t find my phone.’ It’s like leaving your baby in a supermarket. There’s a sense of white-knuckle terror. And then you realise. It’s in your bag. The phone. Not the baby.

That never happened with the rotary phone (or the rotary baby).

You never lost it. It was attached to a cord and plugged to the wall. In some cases it was fixed to the wall. It was inconceivable that you’d take your phone out. People popped in unannounced when they visited and directions were something committed to memory, not Google Maps. It made life a lot less convenient but a hell of a lot less stressful.

I tell my kids about the dark ages, when dogs and phones were kept at home. God forbid you ever had a personal call in your family home. Everyone was witness to the drawn out, ‘you hang up’, ‘no you hang up’, ‘you hang up’ phone-play of young lovers. Generally my mum would hit the disconnect. ‘I hung up’.

We didn’t have a phone in our home until I was about 12. We couldn’t afford it. If we wanted to make a call we had to go next door and ask the neighbours if we could use their phone. How did we even survive? It’s like an episode of Alone, except even they get to use their phone to tap out.

Phones in country Queensland went through an operator. My friend’s mum Maureen was on the switchboard. You’d turn a dial; it rang the switch, and you’d ask Maureen to put you through to ‘29’. That was my grandmother’s number. In my town, people had two numerals, sometimes three. It was a lot like using two cans and a string. (We couldn’t afford that tech either).

When we got a phone I thought it was the most exciting day of my life. I loved putting my fingers in the round holes of the dial and just letting them slip all the way around. I loved the recall of the dial. I realised when we got a phone I didn’t know anyone to call. Our phone rang about once a week. It was a metallic throb. The excitement was unbelievable. I’d say, ‘Hello, Mandy Nolan speaking, can I help you?’ It was never for me.

Mobile phones were phone booths. And they were everywhere. Now only drug dealers use them. After I left home – I’d grab a bunch of 20 cent coins and once a week I’d call my mum for proof of life. I text my kids daily. If they don’t answer I start to fret. I don’t know how our parents coped with the anxiety of waiting for the Sunday call.

The idea of phones being more than speaking devices was not even on the radar. They weren’t cameras. Cameras took 24 or 36 photos and you took the film to a chemist, and if you were lucky, at least three would be in focus and it would cost you $14.99 or some ridiculous price. And you certainly didn’t send dick pics. Occasionally you’d get a heavy breather. We had a heavy breather who used to call one of my first all-girl sharehouses. Turns out it wasn’t a sex pest. It was an asthmatic with the wrong number. Or as he liked to call himself, the landlord.

Apparently we spend an average of four hours and 37 minutes every day on the phone. Which is approximately one day per week. Six days per month. In one year, that’s 70 days on, or looking at, the phone.

Here’s an idea for mental health. Maybe for every hour we spend on the phone we spend an hour in nature. Now that’s a good connection.

• Mandy Nolan’s Soapbox column has appeared in The Echo for almost 23 years. The personal and the political often meet here; she’s also been the Greens federal candidate since before the last federal election. The Echo’s coverage of political issues will remain as comprehensive and fair as it has ever been, outside this opinion column which, as always, contains Mandy’s personal opinions only.