Recharging

Out of battery and into your mind

I am a three percenter. No, no, not that kind of three percenter. I am one of these people who sashays around the city with three percent battery on my phone at eleven-thirty five in the morning. Either you are all aboard with me in this daily game of chaos or you are one of those people that have blood vessels heuristically constricting at anything under sixty percent.

I’ve come a long way from the hot mess I was in my twenties. I would even go as far as saying I am highly proficient in adult admin. I replace bin bags, washing powder and toilet roll before they run out. I have upgraded my overnight Marks&Spencer Bag4Life to matching hold-alls and rucksacks for overnight stays. I only wear matching underwear. I will pack a charger for a long train journey. I will pack a portable power-pack for all-day occasions (whether or not it’s charged is another matter).

My always-orange battery status has seen me sip solo beers next to a plug socket in local dodgy boozer before I find my way to drinks and dinner parties. I arrive, late but jovial, recounting attention-seeking anecdotes of my adventures through dive bars of Walthamstow or the tapas bars of Wimbledon. My low-charge serves as a salute to the girl who once lost five thousand pounds as a result of avoidant procrastination on a tax form for six months and the person who ignored important letters from a debt collector by convincing herself their incessant calls must have been the work of a skilled con artist. (They weren’t — I had to accept my denial when the council tax bailiff brought a card reader to my flat at seven forty-five on a Tuesday morning and demanded I put the two-hundred pound bill on my credit card.) We can evolve into high-functioning adults but I believe we must keep a grain of ourselves for integrity reasons. A little low-batt is my kind, familiar wave of acceptance to my former self.

I often wish I was born in a different era: a time when making plans was solely time and location based. (Better still, they’d swing by my house to pick me up around seven.*) If someone didn’t show up on time you would think them an arsehole or worry something bad had happened to them (maybe both). If we didn’t have the option of providing our acquaintance with the live news feed of our impending arrival, they could sweat for the 5-10 minutes before we arrive. We might even be on time for once. If not, we would profusely apologise on arrival. There would be no tucking away of an AirPod or pausing of a playlist distracting from the moment of first meet. There is immediate opportunity for flirtation:

— I was worried you were going to stand me up

— Of course not! I’d never do that! I’ve been looking forward to this all day.

A moment of held eye contact through all the nicety and cordiality. A beat. An elongated smile. Chemistry.

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*Why is that sentence so god-damn sexy? When is someone going to do that for me? Thinking about it though, around 7ish is ambitious and ambiguous. Only if I moved into an apartment next to an All Bar One in Soho would this ever happen with a London Hinge date.

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I’ve had an ex-boyfriend skilfully intercept me on route to a jazz club somewhere in Soho when my battery was on one percent. I was late and without charge for a birthday surprise. I text him from the nearest station before putting my phone on airplane mode**. My phone subsequently died so I decided to head to where I thought he’d surprised me with. (I was correct, obviously). He bounded down the centre of the road, looking to both sides of the pavement to rescue his damsel-in-digital-distress. On scooping me up, I was bowled over and beguiled with this confirmation of his navigation skills and our expert knowledge of one another. Perhaps chivalry isn’t dead, we just need to test Prince Charming with some analogue coordinates and cut off their ability to contact us via cellular networks.

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** Why do we so willingly accept ‘airplane’ mode? It should be ‘aeroplane’ mode!?

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Call me a digital masochist but I enjoy sitting in the moment of dwindling battery life; I get a kick from the pressure and the rush of it all. With under twenty-percent battery I am in selective communication mode. There are no image or video downloads; only dismissal of news notifications. No distractions. No doom scrolling. Urgent plans come first. I will sacrifice the bluetooth devices which siphon out any residual charge. I go from place to place listening to the noise of my surroundings, Spotify and Instagram abdicated from their always-open app thrones. I flick on and off the brightness and airplane mode, twitching my fingers to get my next temporary four-G hit and recoup essential information only.

If you’re ever out and about, either alone or with friends, look at the way you behave after the phone dies. After your initial itch of insecurity, watch yourself become present. If one person in the group is phone-less, generally the rest will follow suit. You can rely on others for immediate updates but the only people you need to connect with are those in front of you.

Last week, I went on a long walk solo through Hampstead Heath. My phone died. The podcast I was listening to had no choice but to cease. I sat on a bench in the sun. I read almost an entire book, taking breaks to listen to the birds. I eavesdropped on the conversation near me: a mother and daughter talking about their true spiritual purpose after recently having their tarots read together. How north London. I went for lunch. I absorbed my food. I didn’t spend time thinking about what song to put over the photo when I uploaded it to the internet. I took a photo of my plate in my mind, felt grateful and enjoyed every morsel of satiation. I strolled back, joyous in the knowledge that nobody could contact me. The world could wait and so could I.

Having no phone battery means you might ask a stranger for directions. You’ll use the board of the train to tell you the time; as you glance up, you’ll notice the homeless person sitting underneath and buy them a coffee. You won’t find the most time-efficient, algorithmic route to get everywhere. You’ll relish in testing your memory of the London Underground system, admiring the tube map as you confirm the rainbow spaghetti coloured lines and award your calculations to achieve minimal changes to your next location. Maybe you’ll find one of those free-standing maps when you exit a station; you’ll use your noggin and your gut instinct to get you from A to B. You’ll sit on the tube, see the Baby On Board sign and immediately offer up your seat. You’ll clock the girl crying to a sad song opposite you, give her a thumbs up and ask her if she’s okay; she’ll smile and say thank you, she’s going through a break up. You’ll tell her she’ll be better off without them anyway. She’ll tell you you’ve made her day.

You’ll notice. You’ll reflect. You’ll react. You’ll recognise what’s going on in your own mind as well others. So, join me. Unplug that cable and throw yourself into battery-save mode. Start living life how it was intended (but maybe pack a charger, just in case of emergencies).