Recently someone told me a story about their childhood, and eating outside. On Sundays, the whole family would set about making a campfire in the garden. When the fire was nice and hot, they’d wrap up potatoes in foil and tuck them into the flames. Then, they would all head off for a big country walk, the kids done up in coats and scarves, dogs charging about the place, dad out in front with a good stick. When they got back, a few hours later, the potatoes would be perfectly cooked. All the children would rush up to the fire and lift their spuds out of the ash and embers. Mum would grate cheese and they’d fork in plenty of butter. Everyone loved sitting there, eating hot potatoes around the smoky fire. Turns out the kids always looked forward to their walks, too. Everyone remembered them as something to hold on to.
I find it mind-blowing that I have lived through two times. The first, a world that turned quite happily without modern technology; and the second, a world that can’t. It’s unusual because relatively soon there won’t be anyone who remembers a time before things changed. We are the people who saw analogue become digital, made calls from a phone box, wrote letters with pens and entertained ourselves by playing games outside. Maybe this is why I like the
