Though my internal age is set to about 28, the time when I feel profoundly 43 is when I get nostalgic for things rendered obsolete by technology. One of those things was being able to go on holiday without being continually contacted, because the price of sending a text message was the same as a glass of wine. WhatsApp has obliterated that.
Over the past year, I’ve noticed how much harder it has been to switch off as a result of the incessant flow of information. I have walked in the Polish countryside foraging for mushrooms under a crisp blue sky, while listening to a friend’s voice note about their work worries in minute detail. After I spent a glorious day out with my 10-year-old niece in Barcelona, eating dumplings and buying stickers, a friend decided to share a non-urgent but emotionally difficult update about a mutual friend’s bad health. While I was in the Maldives, after I had watched a stingray glide below me in a cobalt-blue ocean, a cousin sent me a rundown of a date where the guy had sneezed all over her food.
