Convenience has robbed us of joys

Let me start by explaining what I mean here. In fact, before I even get to that, I should clarify that I'm a big fan of convenience. I am not writing this post to knock convenience. It is undoubtedly something we have gained in the modern world. However, that gain has also brought a measure of loss with it, and the specific type of loss is what I want to explore here.

Let's say you finish your latest book (for argument's sake, let's say it was The Red Book of Errabrec). Let's also say you loved it. You get to the end and you see the link to buy The Blue Book of Sevadon. So you click it. Within seconds, your book is right there on your Kobo or your Nook or whatever other reader you use. Great. How convenient. It's almost like a dream. Or magic.

For another example, let's say you hear a song when you're sitting on the bus or browsing in a shop. The snippet you hear sounds great, but you don't recognise it. Or maybe you do recognise it, but you don't know the title or the artist. You hit the Shazam button on your phone. Now you have title, artist, album, all the information, plus various ways to listen to it whenever you like.

I've got one more example for you. Your favourite comedy series just launched a new season. You have a look at your streaming services and you find the one that carries that programme. Either you already have it as part of your package or else you have to press a button or two, validate payment and wait a few seconds for it to download sufficiently for you to press 'Play'.

Why did I pick these three examples in particular? Because these three represent some of the go-to choices that friends and family would have had available to them at birthday and Christmas time when they wanted to buy something nice for me to enjoy. Similarly, there are people in my life who would always have been excited when I picked out a book, some music or either a tv series or a film for them. I've been aware of all this for ages, of course, but it was during the usual pre-Christmas rush of planning and preparation last year that it occurred to me again just how much we've lost as a result of these things no longer being real, physical artefacts that took up actual space in our lives.

I have no desire to get into the arguments about whether you really own digital goods or not. It seems you potentially don't. But that's an issue for another day. I know that the approximate nature of ownership has started to push some people back towards using physical products, once they realised certain companies could remove your content from your devices without your permission or even prior knowledge. It is a big issue, certainly, but it has no bearing on why I feel like we have lost some of the little joys of life.

A few weeks ago, I happened to be in town. As I was passing by, I popped into the bookshop in the hope that they might have something I was looking for. As it turned out, they did. There, encapsulated in that turn of the emotions, is a kernel of the joy I mean. I hadn't gone to town to look for that book. It just happened that I spotted the shop on the way past and was inspired to go inside (when would I ever not go into a bookshop if one was available?), and I got to experience that tickle of curiosity as to whether they might currently carry the book I wanted. At once, my olfactory sense opened up to the sweet, woody scent, my vision sparkled with the shapes and colours and order of the spines, and I relaxed in the easy company of other bibliophiles. Not here, the bustle and gloom of those other shops. No, this was a bookshop: a haven, a place of calm and polite inquisitiveness. To find your book here, you must understand the age-old shelving conventions. In return, you receive the pleasure of walking along the rows of offerings, lovingly situated in their correct place by yet more book-lovers. Maybe you will spot something else you didn't even know you wanted. Or maybe you will recall a request from a friend or family member and discover the desired volume by happy accident. And then you arrive at the very case you need. The anticipation builds as you realise you are closer and closer to discovering if they have the book you came in for. At last, it comes down to a simple alphabetical search, and you begin to understand which shelf you seek. And, what tremendous pleasure it is to find the very book you had on your mind all this time! Maybe you double-check the spine for author and title. Is it really this one? Yes, it is. You slide it out from the press of its fellows and take stock of its weight and substance in your hand. You may run your fingers over the cover, delighting in the texture. The colours and the images are so vibrant in real life! But just wait till you open it... nothing smells quite like a freshly-printed book that has never been read by another living person. And now you get to take it home (preferably after paying for it, but you do you).

Now imagine if I had been buying that book as a gift for someone. I would also get the pleasure of anticipating that person's reactions. And then I might get to see how the book made the person's eyes light up with happiness.

Now think of a special occasion, a gift-giving occasion, when you get to do that whole thing over and over again. And you get to wrap your books and albums and DVDs in whatever way fits in with your own practices. You get to tuck those little bundles of anticipated pleasure away, waiting for the moment when you can reveal them to your loved one.

Yes, I know we can still buy things for ourselves and for other people. But how often do we buy real books, real albums and physical prints of television programmes or films from real shops these days? Not so often, I would think.

What a pity.