Luddite Life [Essay]
On tech aversion
Some time ago, we acquired a robot lawnmower. One day, it stalled in the middle of the lawn, for about a week. It sat there, battered by the rain. Why had it stopped? I hadn’t the foggiest.
The instruction manual was so complicated, I had to pay somebody else to install it. Perhaps, I wondered, as I gazed at it, it had downloaded some sociology and realised it needed compensation for its labour. Maybe, being Generation Z, it was simply looking for a safe space. Or perhaps it was protesting.
For days, every time I looked out of my study window I saw it, bereft, yet another item to add to the endless list of things that used to be straightforward (like mowing the lawn on a Sunday) but now add a layer of complication, thanks to the spectre of Technological Advancement.
Some have called for technology to be entwined further into our lives. They want it in schools, in our fridges. Well I’d like it to be unpicked, please, about as far as the early 1990s.
There was, I think, a time when technology really did make things easier. Washing machines - hooray, no more scalded hands! Dishwashers - yay! (Although I still seem to spend vast tranches of my time doing the washing up or soaking bits of clothing in plastic tubs.)
I’ll even grant you the computer, at least when it wasn’t connected to the internet. Yet Twitter (or X, as we are supposed to call it now) was possibly the worst thing that has ever happened to society, ever - who thought it might be a good idea to let everyone in the world share their opinions?.
Sure, sure, technology makes some things more straightforward. Where we used to be able to get a few hours of peace on holidays or weekends, now someone always has a noisy Zoom meeting, or has to deal with an “urgent” email (and that includes guests, who seem to think nothing of setting up their offices in your sitting room). Why are all emails urgent?
Honestly, I am grateful for advances in medical technology; although somehow it hasn’t made seeing a doctor any easier. But yes, I’ll take anaesthetics, thank you very much.
But transport: We have a hybrid car. ‘How far does it go on the electric?’ someone asked when we acquired it. ’20 miles!’ I enthused. There was a pause. Then there was laughter. In adverts for electric cars, you see handsome, well-dressed men and women smilingly plugging in their vehicles after they’ve returned home, as easy as pushing the button on a dishwasher.
The other day, as I was struggling with the snakelike wire that powers our car, a neighbour walked by, and stood watching me quizzically. ‘I hate this thing,’ I cursed. He nodded sagely. ‘I’ve seen you battling with it before.’
The end of a drive used to be something to look forward to: jump out of the car, into the warm house. Now I send the children ahead to bang on the window to be let in, whilst I face the grim task of teasing the trip protector onto the wire. I refuse to plug the damn thing in when it’s raining: I don’t understand how does water not get into the plughole. And nobody has yet satisfactorily explained to me how you can drive when there’s a power cut. Perhaps we’re supposed to harness the thing to a donkey.
A while ago, started by rumours on the internet, there was a petrol crisis. Every station was empty. Parents at the school gates were catastrophizing. I’d read a report in The Times that said it takes eight days for every car in the country to fill up, so the best thing to do was to wait if you could; I waited, and sure enough, eight days later, the stations were flowing again. If a rumour on Twitter can cause that much chaos to our transport network, how much worse is it going to be when electricity stations can be hacked and disrupted?
Robbie has now retired; gone to the robot lawnmower maker in the sky. Our Sunday mornings, over the summer, were taken up once more with mowing the lawn. And I don’t think any of us, really, minded at all that much.
Philip Womack’s latest novel is Ghostlord