The other day I was telling a friend about a CD I had recently purchased and he looked aghast. ''You don't still buy CDs?'' he asked, with an air of genuine incredulity. ''Nobody buys CDs these days.'' I felt like a social outcast, a certified Neanderthal, a wrinkly one at that.
When I was a teenager back in antediluvian times, one of the great pleasures in life was buying a new vinyl LP, returning home and listening to it while ensconced in the softest armchair in the house, absorbing the sleeve notes. Some of the record covers were works of art in themselves and I would proudly line them up in our sitting room, with albums like Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan juxtaposed rather uncomfortably with my mum's Sound of Music and South Pacific.
Four decades later, I still get a buzz sitting at home and putting on a newly purchased CD, even though I've had to invest in a magnifying glass to read the album notes.
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