Double-Oh Crampo, licence to call

“Fair enough,” said Sam, and did as I asked.

Drawing level, I attempted to slip the burner into Sam’s trousers. It snagged. I tried again. He kept walking. I chased after him, wrestling with the phone against the lining of Sam’s pocket. He speeded up. I let go of the phone, half in, half out. It clattered to the floor, battery, Sim card and handset scattering away under various white goods.

“Call me,” I muttered out of the side of my mouth, trying to keep the scenario alive, even though fair’s fair, my cover was by that point pretty much blown sky high.

“Smooth moves, Jason,” said Sam.

I’ve never been any good at doing cool stuff, either long ago to impress girls or, latterly, my children. I can’t cycle no-handed for more than a couple of wobbly, heart-stopping seconds. When I tried to open a beer bottle with a cigarette lighter, I gashed the webbing on my thumb. I can’t juggle, do card tricks, dance, sing, play guitar or wiggle my ears. When I once back-flicked a drawer shut with my foot, all élan, joie de vivre, je ne sais quoi and French words like that, I pulled my hamstring.

I can’t even whistle. This was a problem at school because back then it was commonly held that not being able to whistle meant you were homosexual. The good old days, eh? Speaking of which, my sole fine motor skill is an ability to roll cigarettes efficiently and swiftly. The cachet in that, however, has steadily declined below zero to the point that in 2021 it now speaks ill of you.

The reason I’ve got a burner is not to stay one step ahead of the deep state but because my iPhone packed up. The battery had been dodgy for ages. Then one day in France the screen froze and refused to come back to life. Built-in obsolescence, eh? What a scandal! End of an era. New phone required. Back home, I got the burner (well, my wife found it at the back of a cupboard) to tide me over until a new one arrived. Happy days!

Except, not happy. Not happy at all.

Not because I’ve lost all my data. My contacts were backed up and I hardly took any photos. While modern phones reportedly have more computing power than that employed by Nasa to send men to the moon, I only ever made use of 1 per cent of what mine could reputedly do, in the same way we access a mere fraction of our brain’s capabilities. All I ever wanted my phone to do was make phone calls, send texts and count my steps.

Obviously, not being able to do the last one for over a week is killing me.

“Surely it’s a liberation,” said Nicola, “not having to remember to take your phone with you to the loo all the time?”

“No, it’s not a liberation. It’s devastating,” I replied. “My room to the loo, return trip, is 54 steps. They ain’t coming back, those 54 steps, or 0.05 per cent of a mile, given that a mile for me, taking into account variations in stride pattern – that is to say, and this is fascinating actually, I employ a significantly longer pace during a proper walk outdoors than I do when pottering about the house – requires on average 2,153 steps. Gone for ever!”

“But, Daddy,” Rachel said firmly yet gently, like a nurse explaining something to a much loved patient with advanced dementia, “you’re still doing the steps, whether you’re recording them or not.”

“Ah, but I’m not,” I wailed. “Without the means to log the distance, unnecessary journeys are instantly disincentivised. I don’t deliberately clear the kitchen table one plate at a time any more. I’ve lost the compulsion to pace pointlessly around the garden in the rain at three minutes to midnight because I know I’m in with a shout of getting to 12,000 for the day. I need targets! I need stats! I need external quantifiable validation!”

“Can’t you just guess?”

“Guess? Guess? No, I can’t just guess. I need accuracy!”

“What you need,” said Nicola, “is to get that Fitbit I bought you three years ago working properly.”
robert.crampton@thetimes.co.uk