WELL, folks, it is nice to know that there are those among you who sympathise with an old codger like me and his struggles to come to terms with new technology. Or is it?

Last week, I asked t'Ed for my carrier pigeon back so that I could communicate without using my new bluetooth mobile phone, which is as big a mystery to me as Einstein's Theory of Relativity.

But t'Ed said No - there was nothing in his budget to cover pigeon feed.

But I did get a letter from the Faded Glory in Mar'ton, once a grand coaching inn now living in somewhat reduced circumstances, which read:

"I am writing to you to introduce you to the Bluetooth Syndrome Self Help Group and to assure you that you are not alone in your suffering. There are many of us out there.

"Our group was established to counsel and promote the needs of people suffering from the disease known as Bluetooth Syndrome.

"The disease affects many people, mostly males in their later years, and can greatly influence their behaviour.

"It probably originated in the animal kingdom where the older males of the tribe or herd have to give way to younger males, albeit after a struggle.

"The human male, however, sometimes finds it difficult to accept this depleted role and takes refuge in the anonymity of complicated technology in a desperate bid to regain his self-esteem.

"Our group holds regular meetings in the Faded Glory, where you will be most welcome.

"You will be able to talk through your problems with fellow sufferers and possibly learn to resist that next offer to upgrade."

Now I received this letter with great comfort and, on the weekly shopping trip to Mar'ton, popped into the Faded Glory.

Sadly, no one seemed to have heard of this self-help group, although, behind the bar, the staff seemed to be somewhat amused.

Then Mrs C came in, her bags bulging with market produce.

Having a much more sensitive antenna than myself (women always do, don't they?), she inquired what was going on.

No one would say. So she demanded to see the letter again. Her mouth tightened, her eyes narrowed:

"Weren't you in here last week with Westmorland Will?" she demanded, referring to an architect mate of mine from Kendal way who had indeed been in Mar'ton on a spot of business.

"Yes, dear," I said lamely.

"And wasn't that the day you got home two hours late without ringing me?"

"But..."

"And you told me you couldn't ring me because you couldn't work that blasted new mobile phone?"

"Er..."

"Have you still got the envelope?"

I produced it from my inside pocket. She snatched it away, laughed scornfully, and pointed to the postmark. It was, of course, Kendal.

So the truth finally sank in. Here was me, ever trustful, never critical of human foibles, feeling a reet idiot before the now howling staff of the Faded Glory.

You watch out, Westmorland Will. I'll get you at playtime!

PS: This is a true story. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.