Face Time

          But for the smile, I would have walked past them without realising. Joy and Tony live nearby. They walk everywhere and always stop for a chat when we encounter each other in passing. This time, however, they were standing still and talking to someone, which is, perhaps, why I didn’t recognise them. Even when Joy turned and smiled as I approached, I saw only a friendly gesture, not a face I know. Not until Tony looked up and said hello did I twig our connection.

          I was embarrassed, of course, but also a bit concerned. It is far from the first time I’ve failed to recognise a face – and it’s not always feasible to claim the cause as contextual, as I did in this case. Nor can I be convinced that it’s due to ageing brain cells, since I can recall an example from thirty years ago, when I sat next to someone for hours at a dinner, then failed to recognise them a few weeks later at a party in the same house. Could it be that I have a mild form of prosopagnosia, or is that just reaching for a medical diagnosis as an excuse for what others might see as rude or insulting behaviour?

          In the local Scrapstore – a treasure trove of abandoned stuff that may find a second life and make some cash for charity – I bought an old LCD projector. I don’t actually have a use for it, but I do have a penchant for vintage, analogue tech and, since the price tag was £3 (made up, on the spot, by the friendly volunteer shop assistant), I stumped up.

           The power cable was missing, but I reckoned I might have one in my stash at home. I had forgotten that just a few weeks previously, in an attempt to cull my collection, I had taken a boxful of vintage analogue tech, along with a great tangle of leads and cables, to be recycled at the council’s specialist facility. In that box had been the cable I now required.

          The next day, I went back to the Scrapstore and rummaged through the tubs full of likely looking ‘electricals’, but to no avail. The volunteer who had served me the day before came by and, to my surprise, said, “I recognise you from yesterday” – I only wish I could have returned the compliment – and offered to go look “in the back” for a three-pin clover leaf connector.

          She emerged empty handed but promised to keep an eye out for one, an unlikely eventuality and one that leaves me with the following dilemma: should I spend five quid on eBay for a power cable, only then to find that the projector lamp has expired and a new one – if available – must be sourced and at a likely cost of £60? While I make up my mind, should I start a new box for treasured vintage tech that has no practical use in my digitised life? Or maybe I should put it all on display in a glass-fronted cabinet – as if I had nothing more pressing to occupy my time.

          Despite my nostalgic fondness for the cassette recorders, radios and cameras of yesteryear, I do accept their obsolescence and have no expectation of their revival. Who nowadays could be bothered with a camera that requires expertise to get good results?

          Last week, I was at a block of flats where the entry system had been changed from analogue pushbuttons to facial recognition cameras. I know it’s a controversial form of technology, beloved of authoritarian governments and despised by freedom fighters, but it’s very convenient when you have your arms full of shopping and want to get into your apartment.

          The cameras are amazingly efficient at recognising faces. Perhaps it’s only a matter of time before people like me can have them implanted – on the NHS – as a treatment for prosopagnosia.