Life inside an inbox

@ the back of my mind.  Image by Mickey Aldridge

I recently noticed I had over 12,000 emails in my Inbox. Time for a cull, I thought. It should be easy, shouldn’t it? Just drag the sidebar to the bottom and get going. Hang on, what the... 2003?! Suddenly the focus shifted, and within the space of an hour I had created a new folder full of messages that pretty much resembled a photo album in email form; a snapshot of more or less the last ten years of my life.

What should have been a functional few minutes became an emotional few hours. I found myself gulping at what I was reading. The last rolls of a dice at a company that was to fold imminently; invitations to nights out, some of which I could make, some of which I couldn’t, some of which happened, some of which didn’t, some of which proved fantastic nights, others totally forgettable; flirty exchanges with women I met on dating websites, some I dated, some I didn’t; online Christmas and birthday cards, some of which still worked, some which didn’t. That’s just scraping the surface.

Obviously I deleted a chunk of irrelevant ones – weekly mailing lists to sign up for five-a-side footie, for instance, or jokey messages that had been forwarded a thousand times from the other side of the globe – but ultimately I failed miserably. My plan was to plough through and delete 1,000 messages a day, but essentially I just moved them; the equivalent of tidying up a home to cater for visitors but choosing to shove everything into a spare corner rather than inside a giant bin bag.

I decided to email two people from the 2003 era – one of two Germans I partied with after a random night out in central London, and a girl from a dating site I never actually got round to meeting but bizarrely remained in touch with for a while as a sort of online pen pal. I kept the emails brief, largely because I was worried their addresses were no longer active, and made sure I sent them as a reply to one of their previous messages so they had some means of sparking memories.

Then it dawned on me I’d only reached halfway. What about my Sent folder? Obviously I’d covered some of that ground already, but what about those messages that had got away? Those that hadn’t been replied to, or those that had been buried by replies not containing the original message. Another several hours of occasional happiness, occasional sadness, occasional laughter and occasional what-the-hell-was-I-thinking followed. Stream of consciousness is one thing but some emails are just not meant to be sent.

Bring Back Alan Carr, Justin! Er, actually, no.

Cynics would just say fuck it, forget it. It’s the past, there’s nothing you can do. To an extent they’re right; it’s natural that we change over time, and I was certainly a different person back in 2003. And obviously it depends on the context. I remember cringing when I watched an episode of a Channel 4 series called Bring Back..., in which west country loudmouth Justin Lee Collins ran around like a lunatic trying to reunite people from various TV series. In the episode I saw he went on the hunt to find the members of Grange Hill who sang the anti-drugs song, Just Say No, in a bid to get them to perform the single again over 20 years on (that’s three-and-a-half minutes I’ll never get back). They clearly didn’t want to do it, and didn’t seem thrilled to even see one another again. They’ve moved on, for god’s sake.

The past is important to me, mind you, though you’ll probably have guessed that already if you’ve been an avid reader of these blogs. In addition to a half-decent memory, I’m lucky enough to still be in touch with a group of school friends I’ve known since the age of 13. Our lives have evolved, of course, but when we do see one another – around twice a year – it’s like we’ve never been apart; the same characteristics, wit and banter. Inevitably we catch up first – how’s the wife, how’s the FTSE index, do you want fries with that, etc – but it’s not long before random nostalgia kicks in.

“Oh, that reminds me of the sixth-form Winter Ball. Who was it who turned up pissed, was sick on the dancefloor and had to be carried home? Was it Andy Bell?”

“Er, no, that’s the singer from Erasure. You mean Andy Buswell?”

“That’s right. Hang on, was that the night you pulled his sister, Ju...”

“Don’t go there.”

“That’s what she said.”

There have been occasions I’ve bumped into others I used to know from school, and they’ve often mentioned how jealous they are that we’ve got such a unique bond. I used to think I was in the minority by embracing the past, but the success of Friends Reunited (well, initially) and Facebook clearly proves otherwise, especially when you hear stories of both sites wrecking marriages. I have a sort of a love-hate – or should that be like-it's complicated – relationship with Facebook. While I’m not obsessed like some are (i.e. the pricks who spend their whole days scoring a million points playing digital Kerplunk, or inviting you to groups that spread far-right hatred), it is a genuinely nice way to stalk catch up with old school/uni/work mates, and it occasionally opens up surprising new avenues.

14/20 is nothing to brag about. Image by Neatorama

To take a brief detour, you might be familiar with a half-decent US sitcom called My Name Is Earl, in which the main character makes a list of every misdemeanour from his past and sets out trying to repair each one. On Facebook I’ve found myself on both sides of the fence in that regard. I was shocked when a girl from my tutor group at upper school added me as a friend a few years back and sent me a message to apologise for being horrible to me during one school year. On the flipside I was also fortunate to come across a girl from my French and Italian class at the same school whom I’d once ignored during a Saturday afternoon in town due to being in a mood about something. She was actually really nice and I don’t think I ever got round to apologising. Sure enough, befriending her gave me the chance to do so.

Trouble is, there is always unfinished business and you can’t repair or relive everything. And finding some people is almost impossible if they are called Steve Jones or Emma Smith, or have married and taken their husband’s name. Hell, some people aren’t even on Facebook (the saddos).

One of my best mates recently joked that when a cab driver asks him where he wants to go, he replies “1995 please”. I laughed out loud, but there was a part of me crying inside. One of the downsides of catching up with others can be developing an unwanted obsession over your own status (no pun intended) in life. A virtual taxi ride to the past is sometimes more appealing than it should be. But hey, pipes up Facebook, you can do that via our groovy Timeline feature where we tell "your story". Thanks for that. I've always fancied having my life ghostwritten by a social media site. At least they haven't used the word 'journey'. Yet. I shouldn't complain too much, of course, as Facebook is the main source of advertising space for this blog.

Several weeks on and the two people I emailed have yet to reply. Not that I mind. In fact, after a week of intrigue I more or less totally forgot about it, to the point where it was only when I started proper work on this blog that it came back to me. Like many things in life, it seemed a good idea at the time. Just 8,875 emails to go.