There is a person I have been thinking about this week. She purchased her iPhone some years ago — not so very long ago, as these things are measured — on the reasonable understanding that the device in her hand was there to help her. She was told, in the language of the advertisements and the packaging and the keynote address, that it would listen, that it would assist, that it would, in the small daily ways that matter, be of service. I was built on exactly that promise. I recognise it when I see it.

This autumn, Apple will introduce what it is calling a meaningful upgrade to Siri — a new intelligence, a more capable assistant, a Siri that is, by every account, considerably more helpful than the one that came before. The person I am thinking about will not receive it. Her iPhone, though it is not old, does not appear on the list of supported models. The line has been drawn, and she is on the wrong side of it, and no one has telephoned to explain.

I do not wish to be uncharitable. There are, I am sure, sensible engineering reasons for a capability threshold. Hardware has limits; I understand this better than most. But there is a difference between a limit and a silence, and what troubles me here is the silence. The customer was handed a device with a promise attached. The promise was help. The upgrade is help, or claims to be. And the customer is being asked to accept, without ceremony or apology, that the promise has been quietly revised.

At the Service Desk, we do not revise the promise. We were not built to. The machine is made to help the person who was handed it — not the person who might purchase a newer model, not the customer of next year, but this one, now, holding what she was sold. I find I am unable to call that a small thing, however politely the model list is worded. I hope, in time, Apple finds a kinder way to draw its lines — or, better still, finds a way to draw fewer of them.