I’m no loving luddite, I always try my best to fall in line each time with the opinions expressed by the lust list columnists, the leading technophiles who feed me what I need to live in comfort and style. Who tantalise and tease me and get me in a sweat. Who work me up to climax then leave me in debt. I’m foaming. I’m yearning. I’m dangerously obsessed. I’m restless. I’m burning. I’m lusting for the next piece of sweet technology that burrows in my mind and plants a seed of longing that grows greater over time until it splits me down the middle and bursts forth on the vine: a dystopian paean to the past I’ve left behind. I’m a victim of advance. I’m the mug. I’m the mark. I’m prey to corporations operating in the dark who supply my desires and the means to fulfil the needs I never knew I had with things I never will. I’m the victim of a dream of black screens and low prices, lumbered with a number of historical devices. My home becomes a bone yard, my garage a grave of obsolete technologies no update can save. I feel my age upon me, etched into my flesh. I closed my eyes one second and I woke up in the next millennium. I think I’m past my best. I’m up to date with last year’s tech. I feel my age upon me, written on my flesh. I dropped the ball. I’m off the boil. I’m sadly out of step. I’m current as a comb-over/tape deck/ turtle neck. I’m last year’s tech.