“Where’s Daddy’s phone?”

My one-year-old points towards the kitchen. I sigh with desperation. It’s definitely not there. I have dismantled the kitchen already.

It seems like a normal thing to do, doesn’t it. You’re in a meeting, everyone is putting their phones onto silent mode. So you do the same. There is a Total Silence option. That’s what I want, total silence. Good. Done.

My life is now on my phone. Entertainment. Organisation. Dates. Times. Reminders. Notes. Information. Communication. Friends. Family. Even phone calls.

They are all routed through the little oblong slab of metal and plastic that spends more time with me than my pants. If I lose my phone, my life is basically over. My smug modern existence hangs by a thread.

“Have you seen my phone?” I ask my wife. She hasn’t. Oh. I have a bad feeling. I look at my one year old son. He’s grinning at me.

Oh, of course. He’s hidden it somewhere. He does it all the time. Little git. No worries, I’ll just get Google to find it for me, make it play a tune.

I listen. Nothing. Anywhere. Then I remember. Total Silence.

I spend the next few hours taking the house apart. I find an unbelievable amount of stuff inside, underneath and down the back of furniture. Most of it should stay there. “He likes to put things in the kitchen recycling bin.” My wife tells me.

“But I emptied the recycling bin.”

Twelve seconds later I’m outside, the green bin upturned, sifting through a weeks worth of milk bottles, wine bottles and jam jars. Finally. In a puddle of wine and milk and jam. There. It. Is.

“I’ll never let him do that to you again,” I promise my phone. I give it a hug.