EVEL EYE-PAD

I remember the night in 1976 when it came to a head. We were out on our bikes when dad came home and I was called in. I knew I was in deep trouble. As usual it was Dad's job to mete out the punishment. But first, the crime: 

“He’s been out all day playing with his friends,” Mum began. “He hasn’t touched that Eye-Pad once, or been anywhere near the couch. I told him after his lunch to go and lock himself in his bedroom in a sultry and withdrawn manner, but he wasn’t having any of it. Next time I look, there they all are outside again, running around in the sunshine." 

She hoisted me to attention and twirled me round to face Dad: "Just look at those cheeks. Rosy and healthy looking. And his hands, filthy!”

To dad, who knew his turn was coming:

“You’re going to have to do something, Tom, I can’t take much more of this!"

Dad’s turn: “Well son, what do you think you’ve been playing at?”

“We’ve been building dens,” I confessed, head bowed, “with branches and old fertiliser sacks. And being generally creative with sticks and other naturally available items. Then we were on our bikes.”

“You can do all that on the Eye-Pad,” he said, “Have you any idea how expensive it was? One day those things will be mass produced and affordable, but right now, in 1976, it cost a small fortune. Which means me and your mum will have to forgo decent holidays for the rest of our lives, and enter retirement with no financial security beyond a state pension. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, and sorry."

“So perhaps you’d like to explain to me what the point is of us shelling out all that money on the most advanced entertainment console known to man if you’re going to insist on entertaining yourself by interacting with other humans in the physical world? I tell you, I’m going to put a time limit on your playing out. One hour a day, and there’ll be no complaining. Do you hear me? Now, up to your bedroom! There’ll be no more fresh air and exercise today!” I retreated to my bedroom and flung myself on the bed.

I remembered the day I got the Eye-pad. Children’s TV had just finished and I was playing behind the sofa with my Evel Knievel Stunt Bike. The familiar crunch of gravel outside told me dad was home and, with it being the 70’s, I rushed obediently to meet him like a good little Walton. But today he was different, and as he hoisted me onto his corduroyed lap, and the sweet yet ever so slightly nauseating aroma of St Bruno Flake enveloped me, I found out why. He had a present for me. 

I fought the vacuum to slowly remove the lid, revealing a strange flat object with a front of shiny black glass. I’d never seen anything take up such little space in a box clearly designed to contain it. The back was smooth and yet slightly rough, the corners square yet strangely round. 

"What is it dad?" I enquired with wonder.

"It’s an Eye-Pad son. One day everyone will have one of these, but this is the first. And it’s all yours."

"An Eye-Pad? What does it see?"

"It sees everything. The whole world. You’ll never have to leave your bedroom again."

"But what about the telly?"

"It’s all on here. Along with all the telly watched by everyone else in the entire world."

“Rentaghost?"

"Yes Rentaghost. All day, everyday. Anytime you want it. Rentaghost games. Rentaghost movies. Rentaghost shops. Rentaghost websight. Chat with Rentaghost... It’s all here!"

"What’s a websight dad?"

It’s where they put stuff they want the Eye-Pad to see."

"But what about my friends?"

"They’re here too. And you can make lots of new ones, from all round the world. Friends you’ve never even met, and never will. Friends that aren’t even friends."

"Is Evel there?"

"Of course. But now you can watch him hurting himself anytime you want. Over and over. You can even ride his bike. You can be Evel yourself."

He gave it to me and I remember how light it felt. The whole world was there, including Evel and his bike, but it weighed hardly anything at all.

That was three months ago. Reaching under the bed I took out the Eye-Pad and turned it on. There they were, the rows of little buttons leading to anywhere I could possibly want to go, anything I could possibly want to do. I stared at the screen, frozen by boundless opportunities, immobilised by choice.

And suddenly I knew what I had to do, and ran back downstairs. Dad was leaning arms crossed against the Aga. They’d been discussing me, and fell silent as I entered. I handed the Eye-Pad back to Dad.

“Dad, I don’t want it.  Please take it back and have money again.”

There was a pause before Dad spoke, quietly: "So now you know what’s best for you do you?”

"Yes I do." 

“Would you like to explain.”

“I’ve thought long and hard about this and come to the conclusion that the creativity and invention demanded by real-life play will prepare me far better for a prosperous and fulfilling life.”

“Oh, will it now.”

"Yes. And interacting directly with others in a shared physical space helps develop social and communication skills that will help me make a more valuable contribution within the workplace and wider community. In short, I’m concerned the Eye-Pad may have a detrimental effect on my development. The domestic video recorder will be along in a few years giving some degree of on-demand video content, and that will do me just fine."

"But this is the future son. This is what your children will be playing with." 

"Not mine dad." 

"The problem with you is you think you know it all!" he exploded. "But perhaps your old parents know a thing or two. And mark my words, your kids will know when they’re onto a good thing, and hopefully show more appreciation than you!”

And that’s what's so annoying about parents. They're always right. Well, used to be.

@jesoverthinksit