I knew it wouldn’t end well.
Ever since we bought Dad an Apple Watch for Father’s Day last year he’s answered every phone call with "HI I’VE JUST GOT YOU ON MY WATCH," as though that’s of… any consequence to the person on the other end.
"Can you hear me okay?" he then yells, because he wants us to know he’s trimming the hedges or mowing the lawn or something equally as productive and yet he can STILL answer our phone calls on his WATCH because the FUTURE has FCKN ARRIVED.
He sends messages off it that have no purpose except to say "I’m sending you a message off my watch", and when we’re actually in his company he speaks to his watch just to prove to us that it really will call Pop if he asks it too.
The look of gleeful satisfaction all dads get whenever technology does precisely what it is designed to do is something we don’t talk about enough.
But I digress.
Because like every component of my life now, this is about my Apple Watch and how, in the space of a week, it turned me into a dickhead.
You see, it began on a lockdown walk with a friend who asked if I might like to know how much REM sleep she had last night.
Why of course I would.
Three hours she said. I realised I didn’t know if that was great or like… a sleep disorder, so she introduced me to her watch.