Alison Goulding: ‘You can’t fight destiny’

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I’ve had my forays into the modern day, but they never last.

Each fresh venture is met by the universe shoving me back in my seat.

You see, though my job involves a computer and everything ... I’m really cut from an older cloth.

To an intents and purposes, my tastes seem to run to those of a disgruntled Elizabethan farmer.

The evidence mounts as the years pass.

Soup, mud (though not at the same time) and fresh air make me feel warm and content.

My preferred mode of transport is The Horse. Even though my little car is warm and reliable, I still show a rugged determination to be thrown into a hedge by my sociopathic equine.

I have a general, squinting mistrust of machinery and gadgetry. I would rather do tasks badly, and by hand.

If I have to mash something up, I want to do it with a wooden spoon, never mind these fancy food processors.

My dislike of things that need electricity stems from a knack I have off making them not work.

The tumble dryer won’t work for me. Even when I shout at it. I have to wait ’til my boyfriend gets home so he can do it. Then it works, and he gives me funny looks as if I’m making it up.

I think some of my old-fashioned-ness could help the world too.

If all wars were conducted in a field and the only weapons were fists and branches we could all be done and dusted and home for tea time and Corrie.

These philosophies seep into the words I like to use too.

I can use the expression ‘merry-making’ in an email without irony, though I suppose the fact I even use email is slightly encouraging.

Don’t think I haven’t made an effort to update myself though.

At some point in my twenties I tried really hard to be a 21st century woman.

I bought a pair of silver high heels, started brushing my hair, pretended I liked vodka.

It was short-lived. Now I wear a pair of flat brown boots that look like I pinched them from a hanged highwayman.

My brain belongs to the days of yore, ye olde psyche prevails.

Now I accept it, you can’t fight destiny.

For years I had a trusty old Nokia.

Ridiculed by my iPhone friends, I ignored the runes and caved in to a shiny new Android phone with significantly greater mental abilities than myself.

The joy I felt when I took it home was exactly proportional to the dismay I felt on Friday when I dropped it into a water bucket and watched the life fizzle out of it.

The Nokia is back and I am happy. It’s so simple. No maddening touchscreen, just lovely chunky buttons.

I have even persuaded my long suffering mother to refresh my knitting skills so I can fashion myself a pair of navy legwarmers to keep me cosy while I sit at home with the heating off.

And while people may snigger, I’ll have the last laugh when Beamish accept me as a live exhibit and I can grow old in front of a long fire while children stare at me.

I bite my thumb at progress, it stinks on ice.