As soon as I saw the subject-line I opened the email with a heavy heart. You might not think a communication from Amazon headed: “An update about shopping on your Kindle”, would prompt a tear but this was an email I’d hoped would never come.
“Hello, thank you for continuing to use one of our earliest Kindle E-readers,” it said. “While you can continue reading on your E-reader, as of August 17th, 2022, store functionality will no longer be available. This change only affects certain E-readers introduced 10+ years ago. As of August 17th you will no longer be able to browse, buy or borrow books directly from these Kindle E-readers.”
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It ended with an offer to upgrade to the latest model. But although I have always considered myself a fairly tech-savvy sort, I don’t want to let go of this gadget from 2011. Even though in the realms of digital accessories my Kindle is positively antique, I can’t bear to replace it.
Those who brandish a Paperwhite with Adjustable Warm Light would probably laugh at this decade old E-reader. It has a battered red leather case and a full QWERTY keyboard. Inputting the password is a memory test in more ways than one because the seven letters of my memorable word have worn off the tiny round keys.
It’s chunky and the contrast of the text could be better against the dull grey background of its screen. But it works. It has 186 books stored in it. And I want it to work for ever because it is the last Christmas present my mother gave me before she died.
Technology, of course, has no room for sentiment. It is not built to last as long as the memories it may evoke. (Or indeed keep, as anyone who hasn’t backed up or printed their digital photos discovers. It is one of the great ironies that future genealogists may have better pictorial records of your Victorian ancestors than you, even with all your thousands of 21st century selfies).
Planned Obsolescence is one of the pillars of capitalism. Ever since lightbulb manufacturers in the 1920s came up with a cunning plan to limit the lifespan of their products, a business model based on deliberate defunctness has thrived.
Fast forward 100 years and we have Fast Fashion – and with it the even more rapid swamping of landfill with clothes bought for a Friday night out and swiftly discarded. According to a recent study, on average, each piece of clothing is worn just seven times before being thrown away. Not to mention the garment bonfires that come as clothing can’t sell fast enough in the shops to keep up with trends turnover.
There are the laptops and PCs that seduce us with their speed for a couple of years then force us into a technological divorce as they grind to a standstill because of software incompatibility issues. Such is the relentless pressure to get a younger model I’m convinced computer operating systems are a kind of AI version of a balding bloke with a midlife crisis.
Phones are the most intense examples of Planned Obsolescence. In 2020 1.4 billion smartphones were sold. Of these, 200 million were from Apple. And more than 80 per cent of those iPhones went to “upgraders” rather than first time buyers.
Apple are the biggest contributors to that storage area many of us will recognise in our homes – The Drawer of Discarded Chargers. This graveyard of tangled tech grows bigger with every unnecessary upgrade. Even if your iPhone charger survives the “broken neck” fate so many endure thanks to its fragile lead it will eventually have the wrong end to plug in. And don’t get me started on their headphones. I’ve got enough of them to give my street a Silent Disco – provided they could be stuck in a hole that still actually works.
Last month saw the death of the iPod. Inevitable you might think, given that it paved the way for the iPhone. But there still could have been a place for a dedicated music-player without the pings, rings and distractions of a smartphone.
It says everything about how technology speeds up the cycles of retail that the demise of the iPod sparked a wave of millennial nostalgia. People were bidding farewell to Nanos, Shuffles and Classics with the same sense of Proustian wonder that I felt recalling the arrival of the Sony Walkman.
To those too young to remember, it was the coolest technological advance of our entire adolescence. After spying it on Tomorrow’s World, then on Cliff Richard’s hip as he roller-skated on Top of the Pops, we finally saw it in all its yellow plastic brick glory in the school yard – attached to our music teacher Mrs Rimmer, who was possibly the first person in Pontypridd to have one. It helped her drown out years of playground cacophony while on break duty.
I ached for a Sony Walkman. But I was given an Aiwa instead. It was never the same kind of status symbol as the Sony. Or at least that’s what the giant forces of consumerist marketing that had stalked society since the 1950s were telling us.
There’s been a cultural pandemic raging across the world long before more recent plagues. We’re talking affluenza – the constant pressure to upgrade, buy new, get more stuff, be defined by having the latest possible model. All aided by Planned Obsolescence.
Brooks Stevens, the legendary American industrial designer who turned his talents to everything from home furnishings to motorbikes, expressed how advertising fuelled affluenza back in 1954, “instilling in the buyer the desire to own something a little newer, a little better, a little sooner than necessary”.
But the world has changed. Indeed, the world has to change because its future survival depends on us moving away from a throwaway society. E-waste is a huge issue. In the European Union alone about 2.5 billion tons of it is produced each year, which comes with a massive environmental impact.
But what can be done to overcome Planned Obsolescence – a world in which things are deliberately built not to last?
Christopher McFadden, a Cardiff University -educated Energy Consultant, says there’s a great deal that can be done, from government regulation that requires manufacturers to make it easier to fix electronics to measures that make the broader economic context more favorable to repair.
Yet the biggest impact could be made by me and you changing our own consumer behaviour.
As Chris writes: “After all, while people continue to ‘put up’ with short-lived products, or succumb to the whims of fashion, then nothing will really change. To this end, one of the most powerful potential controls would be consumers at large boycotting buying new products if they don’t need them. Consumers could also make a stand against proprietary accessories (like wireless earbuds or special chargers). Official versions can be financially costly, but also tend to inspire aftermarket alternatives that compound the problem of raw material consumption and e-waste.
“Another strategy is to reduce your replacement cycle for products. While this may not be possible for all products (especially food, etc), it is quite possible to keep your clothing and smart devices for a few years longer than you usually do. To help you in this area, always make your best attempt to repair or replace worn-out parts whenever possible.
“When a product has really reached the end of its life, always err on the side of recycling or donating the product to somewhere that can properly handle it. When you come to buying a new product, consider going for an older, recycled, or reconditioned product, or one made from recycled materials, rather than choosing a new one.”
This is great advice not only in the context of climate change but in our current cost of living crisis. And there are signs particularly among the Instagram generation – who rebrand second-hand clothes as vintage and junk shop furniture as upcycled – that a make do and mend approach can be fun, creative and rewarding, as well as environmentally sound.
So we need a cultural vaccine against affluenza to reframe the societal messages that have taught us to devalue our attachment to the things we already have. It’s not just about sentimental value – it’s about sustainability. And on both counts I won’t be parting with my 2011 Kindle.
