Recursive Words

I’m quite proud of myself. Rather than run around in circles doing everything for everybody else, today I’ve camped out in the junk room, listened to music, scrolled the internet, tinkered with this and that, and essentially switched off from the world.

I recommend it.

While procrastinating famously, I received an email from Commodore – the long dead IT Company that made bread-bin shaped computers throughout the 1980s – before they devolved into a Voldemort-like existence for several decades – subsisting through vague mutterings during legal fights that tore the Commodore Amiga to pieces.

As an aside, it’s always struck me as entertaining that “Amiga” is the Spanish word for “Friend”, which tends to oppose the experience of any company that has ever become involved in what was left of “The Amiga” – finding themselves dragged into a running fight that’s been going on for almost as long as the storm in Jupiter’s Great Red Spot.

Anyway.

Something very unexpected happened last year.

A YouTuber and some-time actor enquired if he might license the “Commodore” name to do a “retro re-make” of the famous 1980s bread bin impersonating computer. Rather than “do a deal” with him, the owners of the trademark sold him the name. A few months later “Commodore” came back into existence, and he started perhaps the most successful kickstarter in history to resurrect the Commodore 64.

Quite why so many people still want a Commodore 64 is something of a mystery, given that your mobile phone is more powerful than a warehouse full of them – but many, many thousands did, and they’re still waiting for them now.

I was nearly waiting too.

When the newly resurrected Commodore 64 was first made available to the great unwashed public, I got as far as putting a pre-order in a shopping basket on the shiny new Commodore website. Something stopped me from heading to the checkout – possibly how I might ever explain my actions to my other half – so I walked away, and largely forgot about it. Until this evening.

The headline in the email I received this evening accused me of almost achieving time travel. I had apparently scuppered myself at the final hurdle, and the beige bread bin was still waiting for me to click the final button.

I haven’t clicked on the final button. Not yet.

Later in the evening, while considering my lucky escape from time travel, I wandered over to Instagram and began scrolling recent updates from friends. Among the selfies, cats and holiday landscapes, a row of “people you might be interested in” scrolled past – among them a face I had not seen for over twenty years.

The girl I used to work with.

After deliberating about if I should reach out or not – her account was private – I noticed her name had reverted to her maiden name, and curiosity got the better of me. In a fit of bravery – or stupidity – I clicked whatever the button is that appears in Instagram when you’re not allowed to see somebody (I’m SUCH a social media expert). Moments later my phone vibrated.

Over the next half hour a deluge of messages flew backwards and forwards – re-constructing twenty years of family history, friends, happy times, and sad times – accompanied by more smiles than I’ll readily admit to.

Isn’t it wonderful how the world can be complicated, stressful, difficult, and exhausting – but can also re-pay the mayhem and chaos in a moment?

So yes. Not only did I nearly time travel tonight – I actually time travelled too.

Long may the time travelling continue.