There appears to be a conspiracy in the House of Backpack, and it all revolves around an old Sonic Youth T-shirt of mine. Now, I’ve had this T-shirt for so long that most of the hem has fallen away, and there are so many holes around the sleeves that, after a few more washes, it will likely complete its transition to full vest. At the time of purchase, I was a small medium, but after years of misuse and plenty of best bitter and red wine, my belly is very much a fuller large.

I come from a generation that makes the most of what we have. Born at the end of 1980, I’m the last of the Forgotten Generation — that final group before technology completely took over our lives, leaving us to roam freely around the neighbourhood, walking that tightrope between being out of our parents’ hair but never being a minute late home for dinner.

Before she starts shouting, I should point out that I’m only 13 months older than my wife, Kath — but those 13 months make all the difference, as they tip her into that overly precious, needy generation known as the millennials. Of course, I take no pleasure in reminding her that no matter what she does, she will always be in that generation. Just this evening, as I write, I’m constantly setting my pen aside to help her figure out how to use Vinted (I keep telling her I don’t have a scooby and she really should be talking to our resident Vinted expert — our 23-year-old Gen Z).

To be fair, I’m relieved she’s finally caved and is clearing out the spare room, because if it were left to me, I’m pretty confident it would all end up on the kerb in a charity bag. Not before I’d tried — and failed — to sell it myself, which would most likely have resulted in regret and a new phone after one of my many accessibility technology meltdowns.

Right, back to the T-shirt. It’s the image from Sonic Youth’s album Goo: two people sitting together — one with their arm around the other — smoking a cigarette. I should also say that Kath has gone to great lengths to find a replacement that actually fits me, so why am I so hell-bent on this conspiracy theory?

The thing is, this has been one of my favourite T-shirts for years. It’s tighter than it should be, but it’s comfortable — like an old pair of slippers where the stuffing is falling out. You know it needs to be retired, but only you can make the call for when that actually happens.

As my sight has got worse, I’ve become much more meticulous about where things go. My canes, the dog’s lead, and his harness all have a specific place in the hallway. My sunglasses should live in their cases by my desk, and even my clothes are in a particular order in my wardrobe. The problem is that I’m not very good at putting things back where they live, meaning I’m constantly hunting around for my wallet, keys, eyedrops, phone — and just about anything else I absently put down. I have three pairs of sunglasses, and at any given time at least one pair is missing. I really should know better; it’s just that I’m useless at these things. We even have a running joke in the family about getting the kids’ names mixed up. Even the dogs now respond to each other’s names.

So what has all this got to do with a ragged old T-shirt that really should be in the rag box in the garage?

The truth is, it’s more complicated than that. As we get older, we’re all guilty of pining for the good old days — when we had fewer commitments (for some of us, at least), and when not everything was controlled by this handheld seven-inch touchscreen constantly braying for our attention. Technology has changed so many people’s lives for the better (believe me, without it there’s so much I couldn’t do). And that might be why these old relics from the past have so much value — they’re from a period of my life when I didn’t have to worry about degrading eyesight and the prospect of total vision loss. A time when I could do things unaided — like making a cup of tea without a beeper, reading an email without VoiceOver, or watching the telly without needing what’s happening on screen described to me.

Or it could just be a fucking old T-shirt that fell down the back of the bed and needed washing because it was covered in dog hair. But hey — it’s a generational thing. (You wouldn’t understand).