Your life without a computer: what does it look like?
7.00am. The desk feels emptier without a screen in front of me. Essays take forever. My pen scratches against the page, and when I need a reference, I head to the library, combing through indexes and card catalogues. Progress is measured in hours, not minutes. Information doesn’t come rushing—it drips, slow and stubborn.
10.30am. Communication is heavier. A letter arrives in the post. The handwriting is familiar, a friend inviting me to an event. Not an email I’ll forget to reply to, but paper I hold in my hand. I write back, sealing the envelope, knowing it will be days before it’s read. Sometimes I miss that patience, that waiting.
1.00pm. I remember last week—my Ugandan friend calling after thirteen years. We sat together over coffee, then he sent me a video of his travels a few days later. Without computers, that wouldn’t have happened. Our connections would have stretched thin, held by memory and the occasional letter.
3.00pm. Administration without a computer is a queue at the bank, a form filled in triplicate, a ticket bought only at the counter. Holidays take weeks to plan, visas even longer. Everything is deliberate, less convenient, but also less frantic.
5.00pm. We walk. Friends gather for a game of football, or we head to the park. Our bodies are healthier, our minds quieter. No phones ringing. Just voices, laughter, the crunch of gravel underfoot.
8.00pm. The cinema is crowded tonight. The whole community watching the same story unfold on the big screen. Afterwards, we drink coffee and talk about it. At home, a new TV episode plays once a week, not all at once. Anticipation is stitched into our days, and tomorrow in class we’ll share our theories about what comes next.
10.00pm. We are our own algorithms. Friends know what we like, what we need. They suggest a book, a movie, a new café. Not because a machine calculated the odds, but because they know us.
They were different days. Slower, sometimes lonelier, sometimes more connected. Not better, not worse—just different.
The Afterword 
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