Unplugged

The story of how I came to fix my music player is an epic one indeed. Heroic, even. Given my lack of a spell in the army during wartime and the absence of famine this century, this is most likely the tale I will tell the grandchildren, sitting two on each knee, sixty years from now. They will be suitably impressed, however, having never stepped outside our IsoDome™ nor touched a physical object with their bare hands. When I describe the acrid smell of burning plastic their eyes will widen with fear and excitement, having never experienced odour before.

Actually, best not spoil it here. This story will take years of refinement and patented Fagan Exaggeration before it peaks. Lets just say it involved screwdrivers, hard-drive removal and the scattering of entrails beneath an oak tree twisted by lightening during a full moon in February.

After an end to three months without earphone music I walked down the street to work giggling like a schoolgirl. How quickly we become used to the fantastical benefits of modern technology. Nothing sharpens an appreciation for a fixed MP3 machine like having to listen to 98FM on the bus into town every morning.

One thing I did point out to people during my MP3 hiatus was my renewed sense of connection with my environment. The city comes alive again without the shield of noise. This can be a good or a bad thing.

My new job sent me to Madrid last week. Despite the newly repaired walkman in my pocket I had zero urge to turn it on during the days I was there. Earphones insulate you from your surroundings. If those surroundings are stimulating that’s the last thing you want to do.

So I’m going to try to stop tuning out by default. The world is too interesting. Except for the bus. The bus is not interesting.