While swimming I listen to stories on my phone using a waterproof case and headphones. A fool-proof system unless you forget to do up the case.

Ahem. In my defence, it was 7am on a Sunday. I’m the fool who proved it’s not fool-proof at all.

I should’ve simply stuffed 10 £50 notes down my cossie, and jumped in the deep end. Money down the (pool) drain.

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When you dunk your mobile, the advice is to switch it off for 48 hours and leave it in a box of uncooked rice to draw out the water.

Turning it on before it’s fully dry guarantees it’ll short circuit, leaving you with a costly paperweight.

I was suddenly off grid, underground, a ghost in our digital data tracked world. I felt somewhere between an extreme hipster and post-apocalyptic. And exceedingly anxious.

I’m no longer equipped to live without a mobile. I don’t have an alarm clock, so I had to set the oven timer to wake me for work.

No watch, except one with no numbers on its face and a dead battery.

I spent two days asking strangers what the time was. Everyone eyeing me as if I was that person who approaches you for 20p to make a phone call. This is the world’s most ludicrous scam: there are no working pay phones.

And really, you don’t need a phone: you need wi-fi. Without it I couldn’t communicate, download tickets, navigate, or order a taxi.

When my publishing director emailed to ask for my home number, I had to admit I’ve no idea what it is.

That information’s locked with the rest of my life on the phone. Being phone free is not liberating, it’s terrifying.

Follow Angela on Twitter: @TheAngelaClarke .

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