I remember those days clearly. Ten canisters of black and white triex and ten canisters of ectochrome 400. Life was simple. Shots were precious. Moments were calculated. Settings were moved around. The mystery was in the box – only to be revealed, often too late, when you returned home. I have trays of slides and sheets of contact photos that I need to get into the digital environment.

And now I don’t even carry a camera. I take my iPhone and capture moments like they were a dime a dozen. And guess what, the moments are pretty good. I delete, I forward, I post to Facebook. I throw them into Dropbox and make them part of my lock screen. Never get prints. Unless my mum says, “where are all those photos you took of me?” The photography sometimes amazing, even if I do say so myself. The videos better than that great big thing you used to lug around.

I am torn, of course. I still have my Nikkomat camera, a clunky 1970s piece of art where I learned to take photographs, determining F stops and ASA, getting the right setting – all for that one shot. I miss those days sometimes – the excitement of getting home and seeing whether you really did nail the shot. It was a time to behold.