Over a post-Christmas meal, my children agreed between them that they wished they’d grown up in the 70’s or 80’s ‘when everyone talked to one another before iphones and computers’. I found myself, ironically, defending the tech age; the fact that we had, that morning, seen and spoken to their brother as he lay on a beach somewhere off the Mekong Delta; that we were taking it in turns to choose from the infinite number of songs being played by some woman our wireless speaker; and that much of what they knew about the 70s and 80s came from YouTube. Who knows, maybe they’re at the vanguard of a digital backlash. Or maybe everyone sees the past through rose-coloureds. Brexit? I rest my case.
