IT WASN'T long ago when I was totally anti-mobile phone.

I would sneer at those parading down the streets yapping away seemingly as though to themselves. Every time that tinny shrill would rip through low volume chatter on the bus or train, my teeth would grate. Course I would then train my ear to try and listen to the call, but that's only natural.

Nowadays its tinny versions of Beatles songs or the theme from the Simpsons that fill the air. Buses and trains have become no more than mobile jukeboxes.

It's not just the rings that have changed. The actual phones themselves have become must-have fashion accessories rather than the practical items they once were. Small and stylish with changeable fascias in this year's colours have replaced the brick-like lumps which sat heavy in people's pockets.

And I have fallen for the hype.

It was a slow process which stealthily, crept up on me. Like every great hypocrite I actually own a mobile phone, but one bought out of necessity rather than following trends. Needless to say it is cumbersome, ugly and -- although I never realised it -- rather embarrassing.

It's actually the second phone I have owned. I would still have the first one if the Long Suffering Marjorie had not dropped it, shattering the display (and cracking the pavement, such was it's size!) rendering it useless. People would laugh and point every time I hauled it out of my pocket and struggled to lift it to me ear on the very odd occasion I: a) had it with me and b) it actually rang. I only got it because my car of the time was prone to breaking down in the most awkward of places and I was sick of being stranded.

I was proud of the fact that it was ugly and looked like something from the Cold War. I was rebelling, I told them, refusing to conform to fashions which demanded my mobile phone should be more than a piece of technology and should say something about me. It did say something about me. I didn't care what the others thought.

I actually bought it from a man in the pub after he had taken charge of a more modern version. It cost me £20 which included £10 of talk-time already on the phone. Up until the day the LSM sent it to its death -- many months later -- it still had money left, such was its sparse use.

Half the callers I had were for the previous owner and were left bemused when I kept telling them Fat Jack was not in. Some times I said I was Fat Jack and would make arrangements that were obviously never kept.

The second phone was much smaller, but by today's standards is still huge and is so old that I can't even choose Hey Jude as my ring tone. I use it much more than the first and feel no stigma in using it in a public place.

They are such the norm in 2001 that whereas having one was once noticeable, you are thought odd if you are without. Last year they were one of the most demanded gifts on children's Christmas lists and will probably vie with Harry Potter as this year's must have.

Even my mate Fred the Dread -- the most anti-modernist person there is -- is about to succumb. Since moving to Cambridge, to go to college, he has become harder than Osama bin Laden to trace. Everybody in his shared house has a mobile phone so there is no land line. I only speak to him when he turns up on my doorstep unannounced.

And as Christmas approaches, I find myself thumbing through Argos catalogues looking at the latest in phone technology. Like at school when only the best trainers would do, I want to be seen with a stylish phone. I want to download different ring tones and change the cover to best suit my mood. I want it to sit in my pocket undetected, play games and surf the web from my phone.

Basically I want to be like you. I want to be normal. To fit in. 2.4 kids anyone?