While it's a personal and favourite way of spending my own time, I have to say that sensual gratification is getting out of hand. Loyalty to fantasy is everywhere, and I'm not talking sex. Adults are enjoying an extended adolescence and passing on a especially pungent form of social disease; slave to the rhythm of the ego.

This came to me when enduring a one-way conversation overhearing a nearby chat with the same essence of being harassed by a jakey. Like two kids with walkie-talkies, one moby caller to another can't believe his or her luck at the wonder of technology carrying their voice over a few miles of traffic and a labyrinth of office doors. But hearing a homeless geezer rant is more interesting that the tentative interruptus chat of the aural gatecrasher. His level of insanity is more appealing than the inanity of average conversation.

Such few words of wisdom are spoken within the earshot of the public, that the opportunity to vent them does not justify the brain-burning hazard. And indeed, may prove the theory that the waves of power necessary to track us down are making us radio gaga.

''Where are you?'' is a favourite, and as everyone feels the need to explain exactly where they are, an A-Z should be part of the package. And ''I'm walking toward the supermarket now, what do you want?'' looms largely too.

Still, any attempt to prevent the prolonged use of the phone would be met with howls of indignation. People would not tolerate such interference in their daily habits. We are all convinced that we have a right to talk. Even though the mobile is nothing less than electronic tagging, ironically, devoted users would moan about infringement of civil liberty if they were to be banned.

Technological juvenilia is such a bore, yet has been embraced by the public as a perk.

Within the usual dangers of life - being run over, the victim of a plane crash or cancer - the dodginess of carrying a moby seems negligible. But it has its place, as part of the self-gratification of daily living, like the right to get drunk, or to smoke in public places. Yes, it's now okay to burble and shout in front of everyone else like a loony.

You see, modern desire is petty, so cynical it shows up the sadhu as exercising his right to select an alternative lifestyle. And how easily present living boils down to the random choosing of things; how early to get to bed or who to call or decide what we feel like doing. Life and desire practically copulate, as time is squandered with tiny, selfish decisions. Our lives seem very small, when we are distracted into catering for faint, panicky wants.

And in this weird vacuum of tumbling, fumbling greed, every day becomes a hostage to functional restrictions. And rather than expressing our true selves, our needs are taskmasters, forcing us to conform in the whole charade of meeting them. And we trundle around, embedded in choice, so that the act itself and the energy it demands just becomes another uniform.

Yet resolutely people think they are living uniquely, that every move allies with our armies of freedom and individuality. But the determination with which people resurrect every similar day does not suggest that we are living out our dreams. While we adopt a drone existence, our demands are immature and contradictory. We protest for individual liberty and the right to make mistakes, but would like more social order. We strive for the showbusiness of wealth and would like to

be regarded as special and important, yet would like spiritual wealth as a by-product. We would like to see more protection from crime, but do not want any interference or legislation to prevent us going out and enjoying ourselves as badly as we see fit. We cry that we want to build our own destinies yet would like more financial security and safety from the government.

Our true effort is ingeniously applied to sustaining the daily grind. We are trapped within a level of responsibility which is not enough to make us happy, and by its accompanying mundanity our minds are too bewildered to change this.

Toys R Us. What we have with our playthings, and the gratification they bring, is a staunch idea of liberty as seen by a teenager, the state of grace of a mixed-up kid. We want the privileges of childhood and the rights of adulthood. And want the big daddy of leadership both to caution us and pick up the pieces of our smashing mistakes.

Allegedly individualistic, we still rely on the authority of experts. The health gurus who warn that cell phones may shrink a kid's brain are ignored for the right of children to own one. It's the luxury of being advised by a parent and then ignoring him. Tantrums would prevail if our prerogatives were withdrawn. Few seem to graduate from our non-conformist university of life with any real sense of self-regard or responsibility. And the twittering of oh-so-important chat continues.