As fingers flit rhythmically across the digital dance floor of the internet, one rather worrying fact is beginning to emerge.
If you didn't film it, then it didn't happen.
Will future generations completely shed their ability to remember the wondrous feeling of a moment if they are too busy concentrating on the focus on their phone to absorb it?
When we can no longer capture a moment of beauty in our heads and hold onto the feeling of awe that it creates – what exactly do we become?
And what of the anecdote? What of the story? If we cannot remember or validate anything we do without a film or a photograph, then how do we communicate? A night out with your friends telling stories and reliving memories should be face to face, not face to phone. Will we lose the ability to describe something we have seen when all we have to do is push a screen into someone’s face and show them it?
I probably sound like my Dad, right now.
It was a week ago.
A beautiful, if unusually warm, October morning.
The Sun’s insistence on warming the planet, long after it should have buggered off on its annual Skiing trip, continued to radiate smiles upon the people of London as they sped by on their way to the office.
And not just the people.
Outside my office, set into the ground, is a water feature that I've barely even noticed in the past. It is a triangle of about eight water spouts that occasionally jet into life and spray water about half a meter into the air, before draining back into the ground to be recycled. We often take these little features for granted, grumble at their humble size or baulk at the cost of such a non-necessity.
But every now and again we get a glimpse of why we humans need such luxuries. Why a little bit of beauty in our lives can lift us in ways that can never be quantified or labelled with a price tag.
The water was spouting at its highest peak and glistening in the sun, forming a miniature rainbow in the mist that caught my eye and slowed my commuter pace to an amble. If the sight of a knee height rainbow crossing your path can’t, at the very least, slow you down, then what can?
And that was when I noticed the bird.
The bird that reminded me how truly awesome life is.
I'm no Twitcher. I don’t know what type of bird it was; maybe a blackbird, maybe not. Pigeon sized but not pigeon coloured is all I know.
What matters is that I've never before seen a bird having so much fun. Ever.
In and out of the spout it jumped. Back and forth, up and down.
I patted my pocket in search of my phone. I could see a You Tube moment staring me in the face.
And then I stopped.
This would be my moment. My private moment of beauty.
By the time I’d have found my phone and started the camera, the show would be nearly over and then I’d be watching the final part of it through the screen, just like everyone else I ever showed it to.
That wasn't enough. I wanted to enjoy the moment live. So I left my phone in my pocket and just stood in the middle of the street and watched.
If you were walking in London last week, and passed some balding guy with a backpack on, stood by a water fountain laughing – that was me. What you missed, was wonderful.
The bird shook its head in the water. Then turned, lifted its tail and walked backwards into the flow to give its bum the freshen up of its life. It turned towards me, lifted its left wing high into the air and sidled its way back into the water to jet-clean its armpit, before turning around and repeating the process for its right wing.
Happy with its work, the bird had one final dance in the spray and shook itself dry before flying away, framed perfectly under the arch of a tiny rainbow.
It was a moment.
It was my moment.
There is an awful lot of horror in this world of ours. There is evil and there is suffering. But just occasionally, when we look up from our phones and take out our earphones, we can also find beauty.
You just have to look.