One of the amazing ‘how did I live without it’ features of the new Apple watch is an app that lets you know if you’ve been sitting down too long.
Do we really need a gadget to tell us we’ve been slumped in front of the TV for three hours?
Don’t we already have an on-board computer more sophisticated than anything Apple can even dream of? It’s called a brain.
But a smartarse ability to tell us things we already know wasn’t the main thing that struck me about the too-clever-by-half piece of wristwear.
It was the size of the screen. How could anyone see anything on something that small?
Then the penny dropped. It’s not meant for me. This latest must-have technology is intended for young people.
It’s not aimed at someone who has to scrabble in the bottom of her handbag for her reading glasses before she can key in the password on her phone.
But the more I think about the Apple watch, the more I feel it might be a good thing.
Being ageing-user unfriendly means the youngsters can have it to themselves. These days, such things are rare.
Anything cool and edgy soon loses its appeal once the older generation is all over it like a rash.
Back in the dim and distant ‘70s, rebelling was easy. All you had to do to send your parents ballistic was wear your skirt too short, or, if you were a boy, your hair too long.
But today’s teens have to put up with parents and grandparents hell-bent on reversing the ageing process.
Oldies are in their shops, listening to their music, getting tattoos.
How vexing if you’re 18 with a discreet little butterfly inked on your shoulder, to find your mum has gone the full Cheryl and had her rear end emblazoned with more roses than a chintz sofa.
Then there’s botox, and facelifts, and workouts, and lusting after much younger men.
Now I’m as fond of my skinny jeans as the next woman, but some of it is a bit challenging for those of us who can’t quite keep up.
We’re not all cut out to be cougars, are we? But, OK, I’ll give it a try.
The latest sight to set middle-aged bosoms heaving is actor Aidan Turner, aka Ross Poldark – and there’s no denying he’s the most gorgeous vision to stride manfully across our screens for some time.
So, Ross, if you fancy abandoning the craggy cliffs of Cornwall for the cornfields of Suffolk, why not hitch your horse to the gatepost, kick off your boots, stretch out on the sofa, and I’ll, er, make you a nice cup of tea!
I’d never claim the moral high ground over the news choices of other papers. But I sometimes find their decisions bewildering.
Our Sunday paper led on the Jeremy Clarkson fracas fiasco – a story that had been dragging on all week.
The fact an entire nation had been flattened by a cyclone made page 10. As a reader, I resent that view of my priorities.
The Clarkson kerfuffle split Free Press staff straight down the gender divide.
I couldn’t put it better than our Jess, who asked: “Who cares about Top Gear? It’s just three old men driving round in cars.”