Grief has a funny way of hitting the rewind button.

Over the last three weeks, since saying goodbye to my Dad, I’ve found myself pulling on a specific thread of memory. It’s the thread that connects the person I am today, the tech nerd, the designer, the digital advocate, back to the very moment the spark was lit.

It was 1982. I was six years old. And Dad walked through the door with the future in his hands.

It was a Sinclair ZX Spectrum.

To a kid in the early 80s, this thing was alien technology. While my friends were playing with sticks and dirt, we had this diminutive black box with the iconic rainbow motif and those unforgettable rubber keys that felt like squishing marshmallows.

It had 16 KB of RAM. It cost £125. By today’s standards, a digital greeting card has more processing power. But back then? It was a portal.

Technically, the computer was bought for my older brother, Ged. But then I found the book that would accidentally define my career: “Games for your ZX Spectrum” by Peter Shaw.

That book didn’t just have games; it had the code.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table for hours, my little fingers painstakingly typing out lines of BASIC. PRINT. GOTO. IF/THEN. It was tedious. It was exacting. But I wasn’t just typing; I was building.

When I finally finished the code for “Breakout” and saw it flicker to life on the screen, it felt like magic. I had spoken to the machine, and the machine had answered.

I didn’t know it then, but sitting in that kitchen, I wasn’t just playing a game. I was becoming a nerd. I was learning that technology isn’t just something you consume; it’s something you create.

I am so incredibly thankful that I was lucky enough to be exposed to that world from such a young age.

Dad, thank you for the 16 KB of RAM that changed my universe. You are a total legend.