I carry no phone An aspiring Luddite In a wired world.	Jeff Berry is an early adopter of the Internet and the Web, a late adopter of Twitter, and declines to adopt Facebook. With the death of Google+, he's experimenting with federated platforms . He admins a medievalist Mastodon instance, and can found on the PlusPora diaspora pod. He hates cell-phones.

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No Screens In England The most disconcerting bits, I find, of living in a country where you haven't grown up are not the big things. You expect those. Driving on the left, no worries. Tipping optional, no problem. Winter nights which are 32 hours long and summer days of the same length, a doddle. It's the little stuff which is confusing. Where is the lemon juice stocked at the Sainsbury's? (With baking. Baking, I ask you! Not with juice, or mixers for cocktails, but baking!) Where do they keep the boxes of kosher salt? (The answer, in York at least, seems to be 'in London or on Amazon.') Why are the showers so touchy? (No idea on that one.) And there are no screens on the windows. Well, that's not a big deal. I mean, the sorts of bugs who invade through windows are not all that common, and we've got more spiders than a Hogwart's forest or Mirkwood. It does mean that my wife had to invent Sweeney-stoppers, so the cat would not be able to force the windows open and go on walkabout if we tried to get a little air in the place, but that's not a big deal. Sure, the odd bee gets into the place, but unless you're allergic, that's not a major concern, you just shoo them out. The occasional leaf might blow in as well, but so what? And then, the unexpected consequences begin to make themselves felt. Let me explain. My oldest friend in the world, and his wife who is a friend of only a few years younger vintage, came to visit. We were downstairs in the kitchen, making tea and granola or oatcakes or something of that nature, when we hear a great clamour from upstairs. BANG! SMACK! CLATTER! 'Ah,' I said, 'I'll bet you left the door to your room open and the cat is now exploring.' Further pontification on my part was cut short. THUMPA-THUMP! SMACKADOO! SPLAT-SPLAT! 'Hmm,' I added, 'that seems a bit excessive, perhaps I should go check.' You see, if there is no screen on the window, but simply a Sweeney-stopper, it means that the cat cannot get out, for the gap is too small, but anything smaller than the head of cat can, in fact, get in or out if so inclined. Say, for instance, a small bird. I started up the stairs, and Sweeney (the cat, in case you had not made that connection), stuck his head around the corner, with something in his mouth. I think we were both surprised. It's the little things, with unsuspected consequences. Luddite'sLog, 19 August 2014 © 2014 Jeff Berry

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