My first experience of brain rot, as we call it now, was around six years ago when I came awake at 4 am, still in my work clothes, face half burrowed into a pillow and my phone lying next to my head – the last thing I had been looking at was an Instagram post by a friend who isn’t a friend anymore.
I’ve tried hard to kick the social media habit since the shameful realisation that night but it has felt like playing a video game that you’re bad at: phones and technology level up even as you get better, and there’s always that one level which sets your progress back.
Then a cat wandered into my life one summer day and her everyday antics are a compelling alternative to the internet’s doomscroll. Impulses to reach for my phone have been replaced by, “What’s the cat doing?”
Unless, of course, I need the phone to record what the cat is doing: chasing a squirrel up a tree, pouncing on an imaginary foe, sniffing flowers with the air of an English poet, fleeing her latest frenemy on the block – tail tucked – and usurping my grandmother’s favourite armchair.
There’s also the indulgent joy of endlessly brushing your purring feline overlord and begging her to eat that latest batch of expensive, healthy food.
Reading has proved to be a time-tested defence against my brain’s weakest impulses. But reading classics becomes a fun challenge while also providing an escape into a world and stories where there is no internet or phones. After reading the Brontë sisters, you get to feel like a (catty) literary snob too.
Finally, a good cycling expedition, demanding my full attention – no music, too – and some much-needed physical exertion, keeps me away from the phone with the added bonus of sound sleep that afternoon. My favourite memory of a Saturday well spent remains the pleasant September afternoon I spent pedalling back home leisurely, humming away, after brunch.
