This is how it feels to be lonely

Is it just me, or are other people starting to wonder about the downside of convenience?

In the past, it was novel to fix my phone with my network provider over Twitter. At one point, it was kind of cool to scan my own groceries, but now I can live a full day of my privileged, excessive, nonsensical millennial life without meeting a single human person and it freaks me out.

The thought occurred to me last month when one of my favourite human interactions became automated. I flew home, and on landing into Dublin Airport, I wasn’t greeted by the usual friendly face who checks my passport and welcomes me home. I get unnecessarily emotional and patriotic when I fly. I have had to restrain myself from hugging female members of the Aer Lingus cabin crew. They’re just so warm and lovely, with their sensible shoes and their perfect hairstyles. I walk on to the plane and I feel like I’m five again, being greeted by my mam after school. It’s the same with the passport lads. I know I’m ridiculous. I do. But little interactions like those reinforce the Cead Mile Failte stereotype, and that’s no bad thing.

This time, when I arrived in Dublin, I was instructed to place my feet in two exact spots and stand before something that looked like it was designed posthumously by Steve Jobs. I placed my passport into a kind of sideways toaster and this robot shone a bright light in my eyes. Once the machine had decided my retinas were acceptable for Irish soil, two sheets of glass parted and I was allowed home. It was awful. With the human inspectors, you felt received and greeted. With the machine, you feel screened and judged.

Airports are the tip of this automated iceberg. It’s not impossible to go a whole day in Dublin without speaking to a human. I’m not talking about having a duvet day, or playing hide and seek. You don’t have to go off the grid or go to ground to have a human-free day. I tried it this week and, while going about my daily life, I managed to have a 100pc humanfree day. That day, it suited me, because I was in one of my moods, but the ease of the task is alarming.

Wonderful silence

I got up. The Boy Housemate was away, so that was the first hurdle crossed. I was home alone. Breakfast, shower and dressing all happened in wonderful silence. Until 11am, I was actually enjoying it. I took my peppy mood and walked to the Luas. Tapped on. There was no need to buy a ticket, but even if there was, that’s now automated, too. I walked to the supermarket and bought a few bits for lunch. I used the self-service till and paid by tapping my card. It’s lunchtime, and the only voice I’ve heard is my podcast host. I go home, cook, eat, and start to feel the isolation come over me like a heavy blanket. I know I could pick up the phone or go to a coffee shop and there would be someone to greet me, but I’m interested to see how far I can take this.

I make a barista-style coffee with an automated machine that sits on my countertop. I take a Dublinbike to the bank, where I lodge a cheque without any human interaction. I fancy something spicy for dinner, so I order online, and my Deliveroo driver doesn’t even take off his motorbike helmet as he hands me my food. By 8pm, I am officially lonely. I combat the loneliness by shopping online and exacerbating the whole problem as only I can.

I click ‘add to basket’ again and hear the key turn in the door. The Boy Housemate is home. His “Hi” shatters the silence I’ve been trapped in for the day. I respond “Hey”, but my voice breaks. I realise I haven’t used my vocal cords since yesterday. I start chatting and realise I have nothing to report. That’s the thing about the robots. They’re predictable and efficient. There’s no anecdotes possible when you spend your day with machines. The conversation was one-sided as I listened to the random facts of The Boy Housemate’s day; his chance encounter with a retailer here, a frustrating conversation with a taxi driver there. My pent-up personality was itching to be free but, with nothing to report except an excess of new thoughts and opinions, I took myself to bed.

The following morning, eager to have a different day, I did an eight-minute Instagram story and lost loads of followers for not providing lean, entertaining content.

Are our attention spans shrinking? Are we angry when we read, hear or watch something that we feel was boring or not good enough? Are we getting used to having everything handed to us immediately by an algorithm that gives us what it thinks we want? If you’re still buying newspapers, there’s still hope. Or are you reading this online?