There was catastrophe in my life last week, along with the apocalyptic fear one experiences as one’s phone falls to the ground and lands face down. It happened in slow motion, and late at night when my senses had been dulled by the evening’s earlier events — I was at a wedding. I bent down to lift the small victim with trepidation as sweat beads formed on my brow. Turning it over with dread I threw my head back and yelled out in agony as the dark, cracked screen foretold the hell of technological oblivion. It was utterly broken and no pressing of buttons or banging on the side of my hand would alter this new, horrible reality. I was thrust into the void of humanity.

Ever since, the phone has been lying on the kitchen table, but it is still clinging to life, emitting sounds and sensations; the tantalising beeps of friends, loved ones, or new, exotic people who want to communicate with me; mocking reminders of a time I was adorned with 21st century enlightenment, as I wade in 18th century darkness.

My laptop is offering solace; my old, reliable friend who has been with me since my early days in Dubai, and with whom I have written many an article and pored over millions of web pages. I’ve tried to get my screen fixed, fleeing to a nearby ‘mobile medic’ in desperation, but they quoted around the same price I paid for the phone, so I’m loath to dish out that amount of money — as a student, that amount barely exists in my bank account.

So I’m begrudgingly using Facebook for all communication purposes until I am bestowed with some spare cash or a spare phone from a wealthy friend or relative. My sister — and housemate — has offered me an old iPhone, and while every bone in my body is repelled by the thought of the elitist electronic element, I may have no choice if I want to rejoin society.

For a few minutes I thought I may have been able to embrace the life of an outcast, the wandering shaman or aesthetic, become a being devoid of screens and the accompanying stiff neck; I could start wearing sandals and drape a sheet around myself, perhaps create a new Grecian era of philosophy and talk along the Derry Walls spouting Aristotle or Plato, getting to know myself and teaching all how to reach fulfilment.

But honestly, I doubt there is much of a market in Derry for the type of ‘flip flops and philosophy in the rain’ I would espouse. And a sheet would be awfully drafty attire to don in Derry; a city that’s as cherished for its warm people as it’s cursed for its windy and washed-out weather.

I suppose what I would miss most of the technological world is the hope that someone would be thinking of me; the sad little pings that bring fleeting joy and then crushing disappointment when it’s just a reminder of an acquaintance’s birthday. But the few occasions when the pings turn out to be magical messages, whether to do with a job opportunity or a long-lost relation or love, then it’s worth it.

So I think I’ll accept my fate for the meantime and that of our society and re-enter the world of smartphones and communication. It’s not that bad. I can still wear the odd sheet and parade around the house reading and quoting Plato. My sister will get used to it. She might even learn a thing or two, or perhaps move out.

Christina Curran is a journalist currently studying a Masters in International Relations at Queen’s University, Belfast.