Digital distress syndrome

Abstract

Earlier this year, my wife helpfully offered to delete text messages from my mobile phone—the talking technology for blind people, while making e-mail, the internet, kitchen scales, and my watch accessible, hadn't quite reached the mysterious world of text messaging. Her kind offer nearly ended in disaster. Mercifully, the message intriguingly entitled “Ok for the weekend away?” turned out to be a hoax—honest.The past 2 months have been something of a revelation. The mute, user-unfriendly lump in my jacket pocket has been replaced by an irrepressible, loud-mouthed bundle of digital energy. Aside from my entry into the world of texting, the “talking” menus on my new phone suggest that I could, in theory, surf the internet, organise appointments, pick up e-mail, and even play Trivial Pursuit.Around the time of the birth of the talkative phone, another robot, this time with a faint Californian drawl, read me an article from a UK newspaper on “Digital Distress Syndrome” (DDS for those in the know): “Our keen uptake of digital technologies with the ability to digitally record our lives 24/7, means one in five of us are drowning in information overload”, says the report, commissioned by digital doyen Adobe. Apparently, on top of our insatiable thirst for all things digital, our impatience and lack of understanding of how our new toys actually work mean we are fast becoming victims of this latest 21st-century affliction.Maybe sensible prophylaxis against DDS is a reminder of the real qualities of life, and the small, though important part that can be played by digital technology. Just a few weeks ago I found myself under a conker tree in southwest France, sipping Haute Medoc, luxuriating in traditional French picnic fare. Work, deadlines, the internet, and relentless e-mails were forgotten. Only one problem: the deep desire to wish my wife, 700 miles away in England, a happy wedding anniversary. After several unsuccessful attempts to call her, I resorted to my new digital chum. 3 minutes later, the carefully crafted text message, each letter blurted out, temporarily spoiling the rural idyll, was dispatched. By the time the reply came, some 2 hours later, I had remembered to plug in the earpiece, and so savoured the moment in private. The smile on my face was enough for my companions to marvel at my condition: a definite case of Digital Delight Syndrome. Earlier this year, my wife helpfully offered to delete text messages from my mobile phone—the talking technology for blind people, while making e-mail, the internet, kitchen scales, and my watch accessible, hadn't quite reached the mysterious world of text messaging. Her kind offer nearly ended in disaster. Mercifully, the message intriguingly entitled “Ok for the weekend away?” turned out to be a hoax—honest. The past 2 months have been something of a revelation. The mute, user-unfriendly lump in my jacket pocket has been replaced by an irrepressible, loud-mouthed bundle of digital energy. Aside from my entry into the world of texting, the “talking” menus on my new phone suggest that I could, in theory, surf the internet, organise appointments, pick up e-mail, and even play Trivial Pursuit. Around the time of the birth of the talkative phone, another robot, this time with a faint Californian drawl, read me an article from a UK newspaper on “Digital Distress Syndrome” (DDS for those in the know): “Our keen uptake of digital technologies with the ability to digitally record our lives 24/7, means one in five of us are drowning in information overload”, says the report, commissioned by digital doyen Adobe. Apparently, on top of our insatiable thirst for all things digital, our impatience and lack of understanding of how our new toys actually work mean we are fast becoming victims of this latest 21st-century affliction. Maybe sensible prophylaxis against DDS is a reminder of the real qualities of life, and the small, though important part that can be played by digital technology. Just a few weeks ago I found myself under a conker tree in southwest France, sipping Haute Medoc, luxuriating in traditional French picnic fare. Work, deadlines, the internet, and relentless e-mails were forgotten. Only one problem: the deep desire to wish my wife, 700 miles away in England, a happy wedding anniversary. After several unsuccessful attempts to call her, I resorted to my new digital chum. 3 minutes later, the carefully crafted text message, each letter blurted out, temporarily spoiling the rural idyll, was dispatched. By the time the reply came, some 2 hours later, I had remembered to plug in the earpiece, and so savoured the moment in private. The smile on my face was enough for my companions to marvel at my condition: a definite case of Digital Delight Syndrome.