Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," hopelessly mired in the 20th century!
I can actually remember a time when it snowed so much that people predicted we were entering a new Ice Age. Guess that ship has sailed.
Today I dragged my daughter The Spare out of bed at the ungodly early hour of 10:30 a.m. I wanted some real, actual, hold-in-the-hand snapshots from my other daughter's digital camera.
I had the camera, but I needed the 21st century human to get the photos from a little silver box into a bigger, computer-shaped box, and from there into a package like the ones we used to wait for so impatiently, and then leaf through really fast.
Spare waltzed through the digital-to-real print process as nimbly as a faerie flits over a toadstool. Whilst self stood by, unable to say much except, "My name has an 'e' on the end of it," and, "Our zip code is not 08666, you minx."
The beauty of The Spare is that she also does old-fashioned stuff, like baking cakes and fixing breakfast. She was born at the end of the 20th century, and my wish for her is that she lives right through this century and into the next.
Then she'll have to ask her daughter how to work the lazer-powered jet pack and the "Make Me Look 20 Again" super-appliance, which will probably debut As Seen on T.V.