A week with iphone. My life has changed. My mornings, once blissful 30 minute windows of unharassed hair straightening, tea drinking, and teeth brushing are now peppered with facts gleaned from this slim, some would say sexy, black rectangle. Monday it was a history of Palestine, Tuesday a review of the Australian film industry read to me word-for-word verbatim, and Wednesday a cussing over AIG’s plan to give bonuses to corrupt bankers. Yes, I know I shouldn’t complain. Afterall this is just the news, the morning news, but read to me from my partner who is blissfully enjoying his 30 minute longer than me lie-in (he works in the creative industries), snuggling with his beloved iphone. I should mention that we don’t have a TV. No, when we moved in together 4 months ago we chose not to go down that path. It seemed outdated almost, what need is there for television when you have the internet? We get all our entertainment online. And now we get it from Mark’s mobile too - a telephone with a sometimes overbearing presence.

At first it was funny. Indeed, I even fantasized about writing this blog. “The Diary of a Digitalphobe”, I vainly projected into the bedroom the first morning we awoke with the little tyke, brightened by my own genius and excellent way with words. But after week one I wonder if this blog will have such a cheery ending? Because what happens to relationships when a silent third party creeps in? Man or manmade, the consequences surely cannot be good.

Take last night for example. Mark and iphone manage to engage me in a game of paralysis, where he “zaps” me with iphone and I choose to curl into the foetal position – startled and stuck solid. It was kind of fun at first. Finally, I thought, something we can all get involved in. “You will like iphone, you will do what iphone says,” Mark said somewhat stupidly, and I responded, murmuring from the corner of my mouth “Tell it to unparalyse me then”. My God, it was almost like a real conversation! But then iphone received an incoming message from some thing, person, automated programme from somewhere outside of my kitchen, and Mark broke free from the game, declaring “Ooh mail”. Meanwhile I remained in the stuck position, waiting for iphone to tell me to move freely again, be on my way perhaps? But there is nothing. Just silence. My eyes flick up from their paralysed shells to see Mark entranced again by the little black rectangle, which seems to sashay in his hands, engaging him again in some private conversation - just the two of them. These cloak and dagger chats that have become such an outstanding feature of our relationship. I try to claw the game, the interraction back, “Tell it to unparalyse me” I say again, loudly this time, unbuckling my lower lip. But still I’m ignored; Mark and iphone seem to have been struck with a sudden loss of hearing. I uncurl myself from the foetal position and try not to get mad. This is progress afterall. It’s technology. And we all really ought to make an effort to keep up.

But it does raise the question. What are these new applications of the wonderful www doing to the way we communicate? Everyday I indulge in a bit of twitter, laugh at 140 carefully chosen characters summarising the wonder that is my woken moments. But who reads this? Sometimes I ask Mark if he’s checked my twitter page and almost always I’m disappointed to hear that my cute line here, my witty banter there, has more than failed to fall on deaf ears, it’s failed to reach anyone’s ears at all, that is - but my own. Blogs, facebook, that new “ning” thing, the whole lot of it, are we all just having a conversation with ourselves? And what will happen when iphone gets into the hands of our children? And we know it will because it is “progress” and therefore unstoppable. What is happening to the real conversations, happening real time, like? Because while the talking to ourselves is getting better, perfected you could even say, the offline opening your mouth and not using your fingers thing seems distracted. We are saying things better to ourselves, but to each other? I don’t know. I should stop now. I’m getting sick of the sound of my own voice. Sick of my own voice and the undeniable “What, pardon? Sorry?” that usually follows it.