Ruth Walker: ‘11pm on a Saturday is when a lady is at her most frisky. I’m gutted I slept through it’

SATURDAY night, 11pm. I've checked my diary to be certain on this one, and I can categorically confirm that, for at least the last four Saturdays on the trot, I have been curled up, foetus-like, in bed – my own bed – by this time.

Sleeping. Possibly snoring.

I tell you this piece of pretty inane information because, apparently, 11pm on a Saturday night is when a lady is at her most frisky. A nationwide study by a “top women's magazine" says so, and so it must be true. I'm gutted I slept through it.

Happily, we Scots also turned out to be the most satisfied with our love lives. I couldn't possibly comment, though I think I can safely say this survey doesn't accurately represent me.

OK, so how about this one? Friday night is staying-in night (another survey, in case you were wondering – I don't just make this stuff up, you know, it takes – oh – minutes of research). Once, Friday was the Big Night Out. The end of the working week and a chance to hit the pub with your weary work colleagues; moan about the boss; toast the weekend. Now all we want to do is head home for a good night's kip. According to a “top bed manufacturer", at any rate. Read into that what you will.

I hate to be the voice of dissent here, but I quite like Friday nights. Another quick diary check reveals that on the last four Fridays I was out – if not exactly on the town then at least imbibing beverages with assorted chums at a venue that was not my own gaff. Which, I think you'll agree, qualifies as Out.

If I've ever been asked to take part in a survey, my response has usually been a slightly less polite version of: “I'm flattered to be asked, and ordinarily I would just love to spend the next half-hour revealing deeply personal information, but right now I have a pressing need to stick pins in my eyes, so your very worthwhile survey will have to wait." So I can't really complain if the results don't say “Ruth" in any meaningful way.

But here's the thing. I'm in Manchester for the day. I'm e-mailing and tweeting (OK, and Facebooking) on the train on the way down. I do my interview, get back on the train for the journey home and – SHRIEK! – the battery's way down. Not quite red, but heading that way. I get nervous all of a sudden. What if it doesn't last the journey? What if someone, like, really needs to contact me? I don't know what that emergency might be but, hey, life's full of uncertainties.

But instead of conserving my battery, I'm still drawn to checking my e-mails every four minutes. Twitter is worse. I might miss something, you know, really interesting. Or really funny. When I'm not checking Facebook, Twitter or e-mails, I'm playing solitaire (don't even get me started on Draw Something). About an hour outside Edinburgh, the battery warning comes up. My heart rate rises and I actually start sweating – a physical response to this most First World of problems.

People, I am not alone. I have the most common phobia in the world, a fear of being without my mobile. My name is Ruth Walker and I am a nomophobe. A survey told me so.