Two Sundays ago, I was happily snoozing when all of a sudden my phone started to ring violently. I awoke with a huge start and blearily looked at the alarm clock to discover that it was a little past seven in the morning.

A sudden panic gripped me. Had something happened to one of my sisters? Was my grandmother okay? I reached for my phone, hands trembling, and stared at a number I didn’t recognise.

“Hello?” I said tentatively, fully aware that my whole life might be changed in the next few seconds.

“Hi Anna,” came the reply. “I was just wondering if you’ve made any headway on that piece of writing that we need for next week.”

I think I must have opened and closed my mouth like a fish about 10 times before I managed to summon the strength to po­litely tell the person on the other end of the line to go where the sun don’t shine.

In this wonderful age of technology, everyone feels they have access to you and your most intimate space

I don’t know when it became acceptable to call and message people at all hours of the day and night about mostly trivial matters, but ladies and gentlemen, that time is well and truly with us. People do not only call others at all times of the day and night, but now they’ve resorted to thinking that seven o’clock in the morning is the perfect time to check up on something with a deadline two million years away. And the phone calls are just the beginning.

Lately, some have taken to send­ing me reminders to do something at six-hour intervals. It feels strangely like having your mother continuously telling you to make your bed on a Saturday morning, even though you’ve already told her that you’re not leaving it till the afternoon.

In the past, you would have a deadline and people would only start harassing you if you missed it, but in this wonderful age of technology, where everyone feels they have access to you and your most intimate space, some seem to believe that the €30 they’ve given you for a huge job has given them some right over your sleep and, well, soul.

I remember a time when you were able to not look at your e-mail box during the weekend, but now, if you don’t answer within a few hours, you get an angry follow up e-mail. You cannot even go abroad and enjoy yourself anymore, because inevitably you’ll get a “We spoke” within half an hour of landing. I mean, most of the time I’m nipping off to Italy, not to the deepest part of the Amazon. You’re not an ugly ex-boyfriend, I have no reason not to message you back when I actually have something to say.

Not only has this whole process become incessant and irritating but on top of everything else, it’s become anxiety-inducing.

If I’m abroad, chances are I’m hopefully not glued to my laptop. People messaging curt notes that I can’t do much about are going to do nothing except panic me or just fuel my general hatred for a modern world where no one feels in­clined to maintain any boundaries. I go on holiday to rest and get away from the daily grind, not take it up with me on Mount Olympus.

I’m not a doctor, and you’re not having a heart attack, so pretty, pretty please, stop messaging me on a Sunday!