Dear Future

Anonymous

Dear Future,

I’ve just returned home from a Friday afternoon stroll in the New Forest. To luxuriate in the serenity, as the June sun shone on my 22 year old frame and the locals whose afternoon intertwined with mine, may simply not be possible in the modern age, if the area becomes equated with the more unpalatable elements of popularity: over-commercialism, mass tourism, and explosion of caravan sites and second homes.

Mind you, future generations might not be able to grasp the peace and beauty of Hants circa 99’, since we’re not recording everything we do, say, have and think, for immediate upload to Snapchat or Instagram. In a world where social media is a fixture of everyday life, would people honestly say they are happier? Imagine an exciting new phenomenon that corrodes both the self-esteem and attention span of our youth.

The older Forest habitudes I ran into look at ease with the end of the 20th century too; perhaps owing to the ever-present threat of terrorism seeming but light years away in the pre- 9/11 era, at which point that fear will enter our immediate orbit, etching yet more lines of worry onto our already beleaguered complexions.

Indeed, it is our good fortune to be in our twenties as our country enters a phase of unprecedented excitement. After setting te VHS player to record Top of the Pops, I’ll be catching up with my old mates from our Brockenhurst College days in the local - £1.50 per drink, denim allowed – as well as looking back at that extraordinary Champions League final and advancing our lager-assisted theories as to who may have killed our favourite television presenter. I’m sure that will be solved in 25 years’ time!

Everyone here feels a palpable sense of excitement as the millennium tumbles to a close. We’ve got a superb, dynamic, forward-thinking leader; Mr Blair is so popular with his public. The upcoming solar eclipse may also be the subject of feverish concentrations tonight, before we head back here for television of an altogether more interesting stripe than “reality” and “talent” shows: Brucie’s game shows, Esther’s talk shows, Rhodes in the kitchen, Titchmarch and his crew sorting out the garden, Smilie and hers taking charge of interiors. Didn’t they do well!

Afte a spot of PS1 games, Scalextric contests and Walkman tape-swapping in the garden – yes, under 30’s can afford to buy their own house – we will make our predictions for the new entries in Mark Goodier’s Top 40, with no inbuilt insistence on melodrama if we get them wrong. As if the world could become slaves to the soundbite, mere browsers of the long read, occasional glimpses of the big picture.

Before the zeitgeist changes hands and this life is lost irrevocably, lets treasure our 1999. Even when a year ends, it doesn’t die until the last person who remembers it dies. In that sense, the DNA of 99’ will still be alive long into the future.

Yours in hope,

1999.