Mobile phones + Poland = Seering pain in the ass

Somedays I wish I didn't live in the era of mobile communications. A simpler time, where if you need to make a phone call you would have to locate a telephone and remember a number. 1999 perhaps.

As I roam the streets of Warsaw, I can't help but notice the range of mobile phones that people are using. Some skinny and sexy, some are fat and battered; also the mobile phones that they use come in all appearances too.

My own experience with the mobile in Poland has taught me not to laugh at those unfortunate enough to have the newest handset with 5 mega pixel camera, MP3 player, FM radio and HSDPA internet access. (Seriously, FM? Is there a conspiracy against DAB Radio?) I myself have been using phones that have seen better days.

It took about six weeks of being here in Poland before I decided that I couldn't live with the old handset that my girlfriend donated me: a top of the range Sony CMD J70. With a display not too dissimilar to that of a GameBoy, I felt strangely at home with it, but it's ten message memory and incapability to read messages with foreign characters (ą,ę,ł,ó...) was a pain the arse.

So I parted with my cash and took my English mobile, this fancy looking piece of silicon ass to a shop to get the SIM lock removed. Ah, happy days. A digital camera for taking amusing holiday snaps, an MP3 player with a 2Gb memory, room for about six months worth of messages. It's a great little phone.

Two days later and I was on my way home from work. Entering Ratusz Arsenal Metro station, I beeped my wallet on the turnstile and CRUNCH. The barrier didn't make way for my sparrowy legs. It felt like the rest of my body passed through to the other side, but my thighs were impaled on the metal pole. 'Motherfucker!' I cried, half under my breath. Later that night, settling down to sleep, I picked up my phone to set the alarm for the next morning. 'Son of a fucking bitch!' The (oh so beautiful LCD) screen had cracked. A black scar scratched across the digital image of my girlfriend confined in my phone.

Back to basics again.

So, I've been using the GameBoy phone for the past few months. Every time I get a message that is two messages long or has a 'ł,ą,ó...' I've had to switch SIM cards with phones with Olivia, to read them. Luckily this week I've got a new hand-me-down. Perfect. It can read messages, it can send them and if pushed to the limits of Poland's second rate coverage: it can make a fucking phone call! Really, it's a little bit too good at the first if I'm being fair. We were sat in the kitchen this evening when the phone writhed around in my pocket in an orgasmic fit of ecstacy. Bzzz-'Ping', bzzz-'ping', bzzz-'ping!' What the hell is it doing? 'Message sent', 'Message sent', 'Message sent'. What message?

After switching it off and back on again, I checked the Sent Items menu. My phone, as a sign of disrespect for not having its keys locked, decided to send twenty blank messages to my friend. I think I might have to get some more credit tomorrow.