I’m not sure is my colour.

For a few years now, phones have been Small enough to fit easily in a shirt Pocket. Funny, that. Because walk into most trendy bars and you’d never guess it: at many tables, each occupant will have placed his – sometimes her, but usually his – mobile in front of him, next to his lager. Among all-male groups, each table looks uncannily similar: three men, three pints, three phones. And there is more than practically at work here. Even those phones with vibrating alerts, which in a noisy bar can easily be felt in a pocket, are proudly paraded. The purpose of a modern mobile is to be seen, as well as heard.
The roots of mobile mania are technological; they have achieved their present ubiquity by being phenomenally useful gadgets. But for such a tiny, personal item they have a high visibility – on pub tables, with designers snap-on covers, trilling intentionally irritating ringtones. In embracing them as a fashion accessory, we have lifted mobiles into the strata of fax machines and tumble dryers.
Once every decade or so, the marketing men and women hit perfect pitch with a product that tallies precisely with the cultural aspirations of the moment. In the 1980s, the trainer became a key cultural accessory: the means by which the owner pronounced his or herself to be au fait with the modern world. Trainers embodied a new post-nine-to-five culture which embraced elements as disparate as rave culture and gym culture. They achieved this broad-brush appeal by being rooted in practicality, and therefore hard to dismiss. The right pair of trainers saud something about you, lent a little style-mag airbrushing to your public image, while masquerading as a no-nonsense piece of kit.
Nike air max were very comfortable, but they didn’t become a cult success at 100$ a throw just by getting you from A to B without sore feet. Likewise, the cult of the mobile phone has been fed as much by cultural association and design innovation as by practicality.