The rise of the competitive book list

I’m a hopeless technophobe. I dislike the stylish laptop I’m using and its subdued pad pad pad. I still long for the clatter and ting of my old typewriter. It was a sturdy soul, utterly obedient, only needing a new ribbon occasionally. It lived for 40 years before being interred in a quiet corner of my attic. I’ve had several computers since and they have all been tricksy. I often fantasise about tracking down another ancient typewriter that could be coaxed back into service. There are still several writers determinedly tapping away. The American novelist Danielle Steel has achieved a billion sales by working on a 1946 typewriter. Jilly Cooper wrote her recent bestseller Tackle! on a red manual called Monica. And it’s not just literary ladies of a certain age who stay faithful to their typewriters. The eminent Alan Bennett, author, playwright, diarist, and reluctant National Treasure is still tapping his typewriter keys too, working on a new screenplay.

My network provider messages me frequently to upgrade my mobile. I’m still using an indestructible flip-top that’s survived many falls and one partial drowning. I enjoy being out of email contact away from home, and I have no interest in gifs or memes, though I feel the ubiquitous use of QR codes might force me to buy a smartphone eventually. However, I’m dependent on one amazing technological device: my own implanted defibrillator. I had heart failure 16 years ago, so the Royal Brompton Hospital fitted me with one, discreetly tucked inside my chest like an internal iPod. If my heart stops it shocks me back to life. Its battery lasts five or six years. I’ve recently had my third defibrillator inserted and I’m now bouncing along like a Duracell bunny.