Can you remember what our daily lives were like before the rapidly advancing and sustained intrusion of technology? It's been a while, but sometimes I like to hazard a guess. 1993, somewhere in middle America. After the dishes have been done, Susan surveys her lounge. It's a scene that always evokes pride and wellbeing. A scene she'll always cherish. Her husband puts on a CD, but is interupted by their grandchildren whose video game isn't working. David gives an exaggerated but affectionate shrug, and proceeds to blow the dust from the video game cartridge. Alas, they have no luck there. They switch the console off and tune in the TV to catch the evening news, one of David's private sanctuaries. The youngest members of the brood sit patiently over a board game. The cat winds its way between its distracted keepers, the dog lazily observes its feline nemesis. Susan's daughter-in-law mutters an article from the magazine she's reading, her husband feigns interest. It's growing dark, and snow's been forecasted. Susan glances at the headlines of the newspaper her husband's bought for the last thirty years - the war in Yugoslavia is on everyones lips. Somewhere upstairs, Susan can hear a door slam followed by the rumble of a teenage grand-daughter slouching down the stairs. Becky appears, her impatiant, teenage scowl breaks on seeing her grandmother's welcoming smile. No matter what confused mood she finds herself engulfed by, she knows that she can rely on her grandmother's welcoming countenance. Suddenly, the echo of the X-Files' theme music resonates around the cosy lounge, invoking a collective exclaimation of joy and excitement from all age groups present. Susan's grandson Michael makes his way to the kitchen. Halfway to his destination, everyones attention is drawn from the drama on the TV to the crunch of the CD case Michael's trodden on. Michael's face betrays both a look of guilt and a plea for forgiveness. Both his grandparents forgive him without thinking. Susan looks curiously from the packaging her husband tells her contains a revolutionary slice of technology to the streetlit avenue outside. The first flakes of snow begin to tumble from the winter's night sky. The cats slides amongst her feet, somehow sharing in her thoughts. Forgive the somewhat melancholy narrative of my pastiche, America. I just thought that a morose-ish lament would reflect the sense of loss some of us will have undeniably experienced at the expense of all this technology we find ourselves surrounded by in today's media-saturated world.