Jonny McCambridge: Inbox apocalypse: Letting go of my old laptop….and 122,472 emails

Last week, despite my stubborness and years of resistance, my previous computer went to the place in the sky where old devices go when they expire, and I was forced to accept a replacement.

The problem is that the old work laptop had touchscreen features while the new (supposedly superior) model does not. For 15 years I have been controlling many of my computing actions and the millions of words that I have composed by manoeurving icons on the screen with my fingers. Now, that option has been abruptly removed.

However, as the popular saying goes, you cannot teach an aged canine modern legerdemains. My brain is so far along the path of existing in a touchscreen world that, I fear, it really can't be rewired now.

The result of this is that I instinctively attempt to physically grab at the words I am writing about 500 times in a working day. It is a pathetic sight. Think of a young child watching TV who does not understand that the device is a transmitter and touches the screen believing that the little men and women live inside the box.

There are other pitfalls as my tired brain struggles to adapt to the shiny rectangular control panel below the keyboard. Somehow, I managed to exert pressure on the controls in a way which reduced the size of the text in the Word app rapidly, as if they had consumed the shrinking potion from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Unsure how I did this, I am flummoxed about what the appropriate antidote would be. Until I figure it out I am reading compositions with the aid of a magnifying glass.

The whole unfortunate situation makes me grumpy. It only takes the slightest degree of alteration of focus to put me off my game and this is a significant change to my previous state of contentment. The entire world suddenly seems like a less welcoming place, as if the sun has disappeared behind a huge cloud, and my brain chooses to believe the new laptop is responsible for all my problems.

I am less patient around my son. I blame it on the laptop. There are hailstones bouncing off the window in front of me. That's the fault of the laptop too. I wake up on Sunday morning to discover that Rory McIlroy has relinquished a six-shot lead at the Masters golf tournament in Augusta. As I read the news, I mumble to myself 'the flipping laptop'.

A working day brings another new challenge. I receive a phone call asking why I did not answer an email. I respond truthfully that I did not receive the missive. A short time later I get a message asking why I haven't filed copy about a developing news story. Again, I respond that I received no notification.

Something is clearly going on. I check my email. Usually I would have received dozens of communications before 9am. This morning I have none. I send myself a test email from my phone but it is not received.

I make a hasty diagnosis. The new laptop is useless and spiteful and has sabotaged my email system as part of its wider objective of causing me to have a nervous breakdown.

I am in the middle of composing a bitter email to IT support about how the machines are rising up against me when it occurs that I won't be able to send it. Then I notice something else, a message at the bottom of the email window.

It says 'Your inbox is 100% full. Please free up space in order to continue receiving emails.' In the inbox, I notice I have 122,472 emails.

I wonder how long that message has been there for, undiscovered by me. Is it possible that my current ailment is my own fault rather than that of the new laptop? I shake my head and dismiss the notion.

“My old laptop could have held 122,472 emails,” I mumble unconvincingly.

The real trouble here is that I have not deleted emails in years. I have the old journalistic instinct that I ought to keep every communication I have ever received. At some distant point you just never know when that press release about the report into the health benefits of kale might come in useful.

But now the system is gummed up, exhausted by years of new information coming in, but nothing ever being released or forgotten. I ponder for a moment how this is a perfect metaphor for my overworked brain and fertile terrain for my next column, but I soon come to the realisation that I can't even remember what I had for breakfast this morning and dispel the idea.

I need to delete emails. Out of 122,472 communications, there are probably only a few hundred which are really worth keeping. But the arduous task of discovering them among the masses of garbage brings a chink of despair into my soul. I really, really can't be bothered.

As I start to move a few emails into trash, I notice a new message. It asks if I want to delete the entire contents of my inbox. I take a deep breath, fight down a rising sense of panic and click on it.

This seems to take the laptop by surprise as it flashes a message asking me if I am sure. I steady my shaking hands and confirm the instruction.

The process begins. Because the number of emails to be removed is so vast, it appears that clearing them will take several hours. So, I write this column while I wait. I hope that you like it. I realise it is not my best. But it's really not my fault...it's the new laptop you see.