It all started with an early Saturday morning coffee run, strolling past the piles of “recyclables” awaiting kerbside collection.

Even without the laser-focusing effect of the day’s first skinny flat white with one, the trend of abandonment was unmissable.

Not just one, but two, hang-on – three – discarded leaf blowers, all in the space of  a kilometre. And we were walking along on a main road, a thoroughfare that had almost certainly been scoured by Dad and Dave types in their vans and trailers, retrieving prized items for on-line resale.

What? Nobody in need of a petrol leaf blower? Or two, or three? Not even for spare parts?

On the short, less agitated walk home, the conversation honed in on the merits of the said discarded leaf-blowers.

Has there ever been a less useful, less reliable. garden accessory than the petrol leaf blower?  Owners disturbing tranquil weekend mornings, with the faux-revving of those ratty two stroke engines – the DYI types, of course, who could get them started in the first place?.

That night at a small social gathering (well within the boundaries of lockdown limits, of course) the conversation broadened to other useless inventions that all too rapidly finished up as landfill.

The electric can opener for instance, that you could never get to attach to anything but your finger. Or the electic pencil sharpener – a gadget that would inevitably devour the entire writing implement before you could determine if there was ever a sufficiently sharp point. Perfectly good pencils, reduced to shavings.

Yes, I wonder if the “genii: who came up those two little masterpieces are still working. You’d have to think yes.

As it does with cranky middle-aged parent types, the focus of the conversation quickly shifted to inventions that have done more damage than good.

The well-read medico, who also dabbles in guinea pig breeding, immediately went global, referencing the guilt that Alfred Nobel, the acclaimed Swedish engineer, chemist and inventor experienced after he’d invented dynamite in 1867.

That was a little too cerebral for this lot, a bridge too far from electric pencil sharpeners, particularly after four beers and 11 wines.

“I’m going with those stupid bloody electric scooters,” the oversized vet volunteered, highlighting the inherent danger, before banging on about the visual pollution that stems from having them littered throughout the streets.

There was a lot of nodding. Most had a story of somebody they knew, coming off at high speed. Most commonly after dark. After not being able to locate their Uber driver.

Very quickly, a sense of gratitude descended over the conversation, uniform thanks that the scooters were not around when we were young and stupid. Drink driving was much safer. You had a whole Mazda 808 or Datsun 120Y to protect you. And they didn’t go nearly as fast as the scooters.

Before you knew it, we we all playing the “RW” game. Remember when…

Remember when not everything we did was filmed, or photographed, or posted on social media, for the whole world to “admire”? Our gifted children’s sporting achievements for instance – finishing third in the Grade 4 cross country, two laps of school oval. A PB apparently. #so-proud #loveyoutothemoonandback.

Please…tell me more? How many Grade 4 runners were there? And is this the same boy that was appointed playground captain a few weeks back?

Block.

In certain circles, we also have the gross over sharing of meals – here’s what we’re having tonight – seared atlantic salmon, dusted in Dukkah, with creamy mash and a side of steamed greens.

Awesome. Can I ask, did you catch the fish yourself – I did notice a week or so ago, you were holidaying on a large boat, bobbing up and down somewhere in a vast expanse of aqua blue. A drone shot perhaps?

I couldn’t bring myself to block that feed. The salmon did look delicious.

Within 20 minutes of further discourse, swapping stories of social media faux pas, we had our winner.

The invention that has caused more harm than good is not social media, it’s not Facebook, it’s not even the mobile phone – it’s the mobile phone camera. The smart phone accessory that has snatched the noble and skilful art of photography out of the domain of the passionate, the curious, and the committed, and lobbed it into the lap of the self absorbed. Selfie sticks – another horrendous enabler – have long ago replaced tripods. Oversharing has became overbearing.

Of course it’s not the technology that’s the problem – the technology is amazing. It’s the idiots that are mis-using it that is causing all the pain and angst and embarrassment.

Yes, the middle aged and grumpy, we want the toothpaste back in the tube. We’re hankering for the days of the Nokia 3310 or Motorola flip-phone, with the battery that lasted 30 minutes. Max. The large one, that it – the thin one lasted no more than 10 minutes – three calls if you were lucky.

How good. Out of battery, out of range, out of touch. Nobody could “ping” you. Or film you asleep under the billiard table at Tatts.

Those were the days – when you could dance drunk and not feature, four minutes later, on Instagram.

Come to think it, those leaf blowers aren’t that bad after all.

This weekend, I’m going to see if I can get mine to start.