(First Published in Ireland's Own, August 2008)

I love my mobile phone. It's a Nokia, faded cobalt and pale grey, and feels comfortable and warm in my hand. Designed immediately after the demise of those early brick-sized, brick-weighted and brick-brained models, my Moby-click has no radio, no camera, no diary, no link to my e-mails, and no quick way to check whether the train from Milan Cadorna to Como will arrive on time. But it has a torch.

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When a family member cast it off as being obsolete several years ago, it was my first mobile. My kids scorned it, but I treasured it: and I knew no-one would ever want to steal it. I soon learnt to make and receive calls, to put it on 'silent', and check for missed calls. With intensive training from my daughter, I learnt to send SMS messages. I would laboriously compose 'LUV U' and send it through the wall between my bedroom and hers. 'GR8, CU L8R', the answer would flash on my screen.

Several years later my son introduced me to predictive texting (though it still takes me a while to change his girlfriend's name from 'BOMB' to 'ANNA'.)

I never understood much about roaming: over the years I developed an amazingly efficient system to bypass all the telecommunications monopolies and keep in touch with family and friends as I travelled from my home - wherever that was - to my 'centres of interest'. Behind the battered battery - which can only be removed with a nailfile - there is an array of SIM cards: Ancel for Uruguay, Orange for UK, 02 for Ireland, Proximus for Belgium. All chosen simply because someone in each country offered what seemed like a reasonable deal. I cross a border, yank out the battery, and switch the little card. Fortunately only one requires a pin code, which is the only pin code I have in my life. I never keep those bits of paper that say PIN1, PIN2, PUK1 and PUK2. I don’t use my mobile a lot. It's more like a security blanket.

Adding credit is simple. Firstly, the companies seem happy with you for switching to their system, so quite often, when you cross a border and insert the appropriate SIM card, you get an SMS saying 'Welcome to X. You have €3.00 free credit...' In the UK and Ireland I just buy a scrap of paper from a grocer - which miraculously converts into a huge number of minutes. In Belgium I touch a few keys and my credit card is debited. In Uruguay I have a standing order.

All very simple. So when I flew to the UK in August, out came the Ancel, in went the Orange, and Moby-click still had £4.00 credit, so I called the whole family. A couple of days later we crossed the border to Donegal: Orange out, 02 in. Blank. Nothing. Not even the torch. Maybe I'd put the SIM in back to front, or the battery was wrong way round? Maybe it needed charging?

I checked and rechecked, and eventually found that if I pressed the screen – not the ‘On’ button - very hard, I could get a momentary glimmer of hope. I managed to text the bungalow landlord to say we were on our way. Then nothing. Dead.

I tried charging it, putting in the other cards, rubbing it, pressing it, but no luck.

'You know, maybe it's done its time,' my husband said.

I felt lost, very lost, so the next day I drove twenty miles to the nearest town and found a huge mobile phone shop.

'Did you get this phone wet?' the salesgirl asked. 'See, there are droplets of steam here - it's damaged. It's not going to work.'

Did I get it wet, I thought, sobbing. My Moby-click lived with me for four years in Dar es Salaam where the humidity is over 80% all year round and there are tropical thunderstorms for months in the rainy season. I lived by the sea, dammit. I went on boats. It accompanied me on six not particularly sunny Donegal holidays. We've just lived through the wettest winter in Uruguayan history. Of course I'd got it wet! And it never complained!

I pulled myself together.

'Can you sell me one exactly the same? And I'll just put my old card in it?'

'I'm afraid we don't do upgrades...'

Upgrades? I didn't want an upgrade, just a replacement phone...

The salesgirl looked at me scornfully. I could read her mind: who is this idiot with a posh English accent who owns a prehistoric mobile and doesn't understand the word upgrade? She took a deep breath.

'We can't sell you a phone without a SIM. You'll have to get a new number and register. Here, this one's on special offer, Nokia like your old one, inbuilt radio and free sunglasses. €69.00, with €2.00 credit already on it.

'But I don't want a radio and I don't want sunglasses. And I don't want a shiny dark screen full of icons I don't understand, and this phone is ugly and cold.'

'It's the cheapest one we have, and it's the simplest on the market. Look, just fill in your details here, and sign. This is your PIN1 and PIN2 and this is your PUK1 and PUK 2, and your new number. Just call this number for €7.00 free credit. And I'll set it so you don't need to use a code.'

Have you ever found yourself doing something that you know for sure is intrinsically wrong, but you're just pulled by the tide? Reluctantly, I paid.

At home I threw away the box, PUKs and PINs, gave the sunglasses away, and stuck the phone in a drawer. My old Moby-click sat comfortingly in my pocket, where from time to time I cradled it. Then we had to cross the border, and I took the new phone. And switched the SIM card. And tried to call my mother-in-law. A deep voice boomed at me.

'Your mobile phone is blocked, and can only be used with your 02 card. See your dealer.'

Next day I went back to the shop.

'I want to see the manager.'

'Well, Madam, see this paper you signed? You have bought an exclusive deal with 02 Ireland, and your phone is blocked. Once you have used €150 in credit, 02 will unblock it for you.'

'Hang on a sec. I told you I was here on holiday. I need to make about two calls a week, and send a few text messages, and you're telling me I can't use this phone with another SIM card until I've spent €150 on yours? You must be joking! I live in Uruguay! There must be a way!'

'Madam, you signed the contract. But I'll see what I can do. If you bring me back the box, and the PIN and the PUK and the receipt...

Which of course were deep in some remote Donegal landfill by now. After all, I had only expected my phone to work.

I went home. I gave the new Nokia to my daughter, who said there were 'ways' of unblocking phones.

I put my hand in my pocket and caressed Moby-click. You would never have treated me this way, I sobbed. Why did I get you wet?

I pulled it out and looked at it. A pale, warm, friendly face looked at me. Gently, I pressed the 'On' button. And slowly, light spread over the screen like a big smile. Moby-click was back, torch and all.