A phone that lives in a drawer
After breakfast the phone goes in the kitchen drawer, with the string and the spare keys. We still use it. We look at it in the morning and again in the evening, the way people used to open the post.
Now an agent keeps the diary, answers the easy messages, deals with the paperwork and tells us when something really needs us. It is a bit like having a personal secretary. Most of us never had one. That was for people with big jobs. It is not perfect yet, and we still check what it has done. But it is starting to work.
When we go out, the phone stays behind. On a Saturday morning we walk to the bakery. The man next door is cutting his hedge, so we stop and hold the ladder for him.
Then the garden, even if it is only a few pots by the back door. The beans need picking and the tomatoes need tying up. We top up the water for the birds. It is slow work, and nobody is waiting for a reply.
After lunch we knock on the door across the road. The older man there lives alone, and the long walks are too much for him now, so we take his dog out. On the way back we pick up the litter by the bus stop. It takes five minutes.
Family and a few friends from the neighbourhood come round in the evening, and nobody is in a hurry to get up from the table.
Before bed we open the drawer. There is a short note from the agent. The dentist has moved to Thursday. Our friends can come for lunch on Sunday. Nothing else needed us today.