Morbid mobiles

You probably saw that spooky story in the foreign pages the other day, about how mourners at a funeral in Poland fled - and one even fainted - after a mobile phone started ringing in a neighbouring grave.

Given the ubiquity of mobile phones these days, this struck me as an overreaction on their part. Personally, I'd have fled only if someone had answered it. Although, having said that, I find it disturbing enough to wonder if the caller got through to the person's message minder: "Hi, I can't take your call right now. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as possible." It's probably even creepier in Polish.

But the story illustrates just how far mobile phones have penetrated our lives (and in this case afterlives) in the space of a few years. Not that I needed much illustration after an experience recently on the Belfast-Dublin train.

I had just settled into my seat, and was looking forward to two hours of air-conditioned calm, insulated from the stresses of work, when a mobile phone rang. And as always happens on these occasions, me and about 12 other people started fumbling for ours, until a smug-looking businessman across the aisle said "Yes, speaking" and we all had to pretend we were doing something else. (There's the added drawback in such circumstances that, having revealed to everyone that you have a phone, you lose face if it doesn't ring at least once during the journey.)

The businessman wasn't smug for long, though. There was a problem with something somewhere and he was very annoyed about it. "I'm very annoyed about that, Elaine," he said, ringing off. "But thanks for letting me know."

I'm sure I speak for everyone in the carriage when I say that, since we couldn't ignore his problem, we now wanted to know what it was. Luckily he made another call. "Hi John, it's Trevor. I gather that delivery didn't arrive yesterday . . . No, no, you're right, it's not acceptable . . . I'll find out what happened, don't worry."

We were being sucked in. Someone was to blame, clearly, but the question was who? Geoff, it turned out. "Hi, Geoff? Trevor here. I'm getting bad reports about empty shelves in Lisburn - what's the story?" He listened sternly to the story, which we couldn't hear; but it wasn't a great story, to judge by Trevor's comments. "That still left Monday, Geoff," he'd say, before listening sternly a while longer and saying something else, like "We need to be sure this can't happen again, Geoff".

There were more calls, and the train had reached Dundalk before the problem was finally ironed out, by which time many of us had formed detailed opinions about the need for restructuring in the company's delivery division. But Trevor was just enjoying a well-earned breakfast when his phone rang again. In smoking terms, Trevor had a 60-a-day habit, at least.

"Rajiv?" he said, with a tone of voice attempting to convey enthusiasm but also conveying that this was the 27th phonecall from Rajiv about the same subject, and all stock answers had been exhausted in the previous 26. "I must say I admire your persistence," was all he could manage, squirming audibly.

Rajiv was trying to sell something and wasn't taking "leave it with me" for an answer. So Trevor went on squirming until we were nearly in Drogheda, by which time the rest of us were on the point of passing him notes with suggested get-out lines, like: "I have to go now, the train is being held up by bandits".

But something else came to the rescue - possibly his battery crashing - because Rajiv was suddenly gone. And the rest of the journey passed in silence; delivery of which, though too little, too late, was still welcome.

When I got to Dublin, I was suffering from what I now realise was passive work-related stress. You haven't heard much about this condition yet, and the alleged brain-frying qualities of mobile phones are ahead of it in the queue for any class actions. But unless trains and other public places start introducing "no-phoning" sections soon, I predict it has a big future.

Frank McNally can be contacted by mobile phone, but he'd rather you wrote, or emailed him at: fmcnally@irish-times.ie