Now that I’ve finally trained my mother out of using it, it rings so rarely that in some reptilian part of my brain I must think it’s a fire alarm, or maybe the police.

Of course, it’s usually cold callers with foreign accents. I only know this because every now and then one of us makes the mistake of picking up. Mostly, I just let it ring and ring, even if I’m standing right beside it.

The phone does have an answering facility, but I’ve never worked out how to listen to it, even though we moved here two and a half years ago. I just figure if it’s someone I need or want to talk to, they would have my mobile number and would try me that way. If they don’t have my mobile number, then I probably don’t want to talk to them.

The truth is, I never give out my landline number, because I don’t know it. I’ve never bothered to learn it. Mind you, I do remember the number for the house I grew up in, back in that misty land before time that is the pre-mobile world.

In fact, I believe I knew several numbers off by heart back in those days, which is amazing, considering I have trouble remembering the two digits of my age and the birthdates of my children.

I am a bit mystified as to how the cold callers and raffle ticket sellers get the home number. Maybe they use something we used to call the ‘White Pages’, while drinking Cinzano and playing Twister (or whatever it is people who live in the past do).

Actually, even the ringing of my mobile phone gives me a fright. ‘What’s wrong with texting?’ I mutter, as I let it go to voicemail. Then I curse myself, because I hate voicemail even more than actual conversations. You have to listen to a whole 30-second ramble, even find an elusive pen and write down a stupid landline number, when you could have got the gist of it in a one sentence text.

Most of all, I just think phone calls are kind of rude. ‘Stop everything and listen to me!’ they say. Which brings me to another advantage of mobiles over landlines: call screening. The unexpected caller is one heart attack too many.