Anyone who grew up in the pre-smartphone era will know that, when it came to relieving boredom, reading was one of the few independent antidotes on offer. As a result, I spent much of my free time as a child steeped in everything from Enid Blyton to Roald Dahl to Frances Hodgson Burnett. And I got so much pleasure from being transported to other magical, exciting, sometimes scary worlds that when my son was born, 16 years ago, I just assumed that he would too.
We read to him every day when he was a baby and toddler, and every night at bedtime after he started school, where he started reading himself. He loved TinTin and Asterix and Moomins. Then he got into graphic novels. I didn’t really care what he was reading as long as he was reading something. I loved how much enjoyment he got from books and assumed it was a lifelong habit.
And then, when he was in year 6, everything changed. At a moment in time before I understood the significance of giving a child a tiny, evil, hand-held brain thief equipped with a multitude of ways to create chronic addiction, we gave him a smartphone. If I had the time again, I would not even consider it. But it was lockdown: need I say more? Schools were closed. We were all stuck at home and we pounced on any connection to the outside world, which is why we also let him start gaming online with friends. After all, no one knew if we’d ever interact normally with others again.
