My parents bought me my first mobile phone when I was 20, with strict instructions that it should be used only in emergencies, not for chatting. Calls used to cost a fortune in “the olden days”. For the first few years, I didn’t view my phone as a communication device. It was a rape whistle with delusions of grandeur.

To those under 30, talk of pre-mobile days must seem like tales from a comparatively recent yet ancient-sounding time. Like when my late Nan used to tell me the story of how she left Yorkshire for London as a teenager, travelling by horse and cart.

Our mobiles have evolved to become extensions of ourselves; now I’m just as reliant on my device as everyone else. Emergency has nothing to do with it and interruption is welcome.

I’m usually relaxed about having phones in my sessions, often using them as a resource and only laying down the law if my assumption of respectful use is undermined.

Existence without a smartphone glued to a sweaty palm, even for an hour, is visibly traumatic for some

This year, however, I’ve had to be tough with one group, many of whom are seemingly hypnotised by their phones and just can’t look away. They know that if they are expecting an important call - work- or health-related - they can tell me at the beginning of the session and step outside to take it. Otherwise, it’s phones on silent, in bags, zipped away.

Throughout the years, the “phones should not be answered in class” conversation has led to a tediously predictable exchange: the student states that they won’t know if it’s an important call unless they answer. I reassure them that, in an emergency, someone would contact the college. The student then asserts that they get loads of important calls. At this point, I take a deep breath and think: “Do you? Do you? You’re a 16-year-old, not a chuffin’ cardiologist on call.”

Existence without a smartphone glued to a sweaty palm, even for an hour, is visibly traumatic for some. One student promised to knock out everyone in the room if they were found to have nicked her missing phone. Seeing her punch her handbag between parading aggressively and threatening mass destruction was reminiscent of Basil Fawlty beating up his Austin 1100 with a branch. I was mesmerised by the spectacle and suggested that one of her colleagues perhaps call the phone. The ringtone resonated from within the beaten handbag. I was embarrassed for her. No one commented. No one had to.

Nowadays I also feel vulnerable without my phone in my pocket. But I might get more done if, from time to time, I went back to “the olden days” when constant interruption wasn’t invited.

Sarah Simons works in colleges and adult community education in the East Midlands, and is the director of UKFEchat. She tweets @MrsSarahSimons