claytoncast

I can remember when catching up with people involved a telephone with a cord long enough to lasso a small pony. You’d run it into the bathroom, light a candle, pour a glass of Muscadet (very important, the Muscadet), sink into a bath so hot you had to top it up twice, and talk. Properly talk. An entire evening could vanish in steam and stories. There was no “seen at 21:04.” No typing bubbles. No curated lighting. Just voices. Pauses. The occasional slosh. These days, connection lives in a folder on my phone. I sometimes wake up and, rather shamelessly, look forward to clicking it. Birthdays. Promotions. New jobs. Holidays. A day out somewhere photogenic involving brunch. It’s rather lovely, really. And yet. Instagram is alarmingly positive. Everyone appears to be: • Falling over attractively. • Applying skin serums under perfect lighting. • Driving something fast around a corner. • “Thrilled to announce…” • “Grateful to share…” Happily, of course. Even X (which I still ...