INLSA

I have a love-hate relationship with my cellphone.

Unlike most cellular devices, mine is not pretty. It doesn’t fold out, it takes grainy Blair Witch photos, it has as much internet connectivity as a pumpkin seed, it has yet to make toast and if I’m on the train, the reception is always blizzard-like.

For the most part, my phone feels like a nasty goblin resting in the bottom of my bag. It taunts me when it rings, playing hide-and-seek beneath bank slips and lip balms. When I finally corner it, it either goes mute or connects me to a perky call-centre jockey who pronounces my name incorrectly and offers me five credit cards, a BlackBerry and a ride on a camel. Oh, happy days.

However, while my phone scares me when it’s being a phone, I do love it for one thing: SMS. Besides e-mail, what other medium allows us to lie with such audacity and cunning? What other mode of communication helps us wriggle out of maggoty interactions with such considered politeness?

If it weren’t for SMS, I would admittedly have a more active social life, but I’d probably sit trapped at braais, silently sending out an SOS.

Because if, like me, you are as sociable as Jeffrey Dahmer but have an inherent politeness that would make the queen look like a bouncer, it’s hard to say no.

When someone phones me to ask if I would attend a housewarming/ tree-planting ceremony/home birth (yes, really)/faith-based breakfast or gluten-free pizza evening, I stammer for a few seconds, search my memory banks for an excuse – and say yes. I can’t turn down a real person.

However, if I receive an SMS inviting me to sundry rituals and rye-based pizza evenings, I take a few minutes. I breathe. I ask myself if this is something I really, really want.

I might put on the Spice Girls – Tell Me What You Want, What You Really Really Want – and then, retching with the shame that I actually own anything by the Spice Girls, concoct a witty and blustering SMS explaining why I can’t attend.

“Am totally knackered – working like a dog” usually does the trick. People respect a workaholic.

“Would love to, but feel I need to spend time with B” always works. People love a romantic.

“Am waking up early to volunteer at animal shelter, but have a lekker time!” is always a winner. No one can resist a martyr.

It’s hard being a charlatan, but it’s ridiculously easy when you have predictive text.

However, the other day, I decided to make my text unpredictable. I was broke. I owed the charity shop where I really, really do volunteer R165, and had tucked those bank notes into the out-of-bounds territory of my wallet.

I was in Stanford, visiting my nieces, but was due to leave for Cape Town that morning to do my stint at the charity shop – and repay my debt. Complicated stuff for a social cretin.

At 10am, my nieces begged me to take them to the local cheese farm. They don’t like cheese, but love the playground at the farm. And, it turns out, they also love the scones, the milkshakes and the mini-picnics the farm cafe serves. They also know how to melt my heart with cheesy kids’ pleading.

Pleeeeeeeaaaaasssssseeeee?” the little one begged, holding her hands in front of her face like rabbits’ paws. “Plllllleeeeeeeaaaaaase can we have something to eat? We’re hungry,” mewled the older one.

And because I can’t say no to real people, I sighed and relented, fished out the R165 and ordered them two picnic baskets and two Horlicks milkshakes – and because I’m not really a martyr, a coffee and scone for myself.

Then I picked up my phone, and did the unthinkable: I sent an honest SMS. It went like this: “Hi. I owe the shop 165 ront, but have just blown it on two dubious-looking hot dogs, a wodge of cheese, two milkshakes, a cup of coffee and a scone, and feel too ashamed to show my face. I will be there next week.”

My phone rang immediately. The charity boss was hysterical with laughter. It turns out honesty is “refreshing”.

However, I’m going to take my newfound SMS honesty slowly. Some situations still require a little Nokia nuance.

I don’t think most people would take kindly to a message that reads: “Your friends are boring, your house smells like hamsters, your cooking sucks and there’s never enough wine.” That might just be a tad too textual.

helen.walne@inl.co.za