AFTER my mother died last year, my brothers and I rediscovered her life when we sorted through the house in Kent where she had lived for over 30 years. We waded through cupboards and drawers full of photos, letters and ephemera accumulated through the wartime discipline of ‘not throwing anything away’ - something she inherited from her mother.

Buried among the mountain of bank statements, utility bills, invoices, receipts and trivia that I am still shredding were some rare finds: a map clipped from the local paper in 1945 showing where every doodlebug had landed, a letter from her father saying how proud he was of her and how much he looked forward to meeting the young man to whom he learned she had become engaged… and an avalanche of photos. One of her father taken in India during the First World War, proudly standing in full military uniform by his army issue bike; a studio shot of her mother in her 20s; one taken on her 80th birthday of her aunt who had just turned 100 with my newborn son on her lap - the eldest and youngest member of the family spanning the century meeting for the one and only time. And there were stacks of everyday photos – on holiday with friends, over lunch with the family, Christmas gatherings, graduations and school leavings, birthdays and days by the seaside.

The cupboards and drawers were a picture of her life. For us, new unexpected discoveries, long lost memories recalled evoked joy, sadness and surprise as we discovered a life we only knew in part.

That was last summer, but I was reminded of it as my son completed his last day at school. A flurry of proud parents produced cameras and phones as his year group lined up together. They complemented the ones of him dressed up for his leavers dinner, playing at his last concert, etc, etc – I needn’t go on.

This generation has taken more photographs than any generation before. But most of them will never see the light of day; memories locked into a sim card or online account. Occasionally shared with someone squinting at a phone, seldom printed out and much more rarely framed or mounted in an album. And though my life seems to consist of sending and receiving emails, I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of letters that I actually write or receive.

Doubtless the data will outlive us. But doubtless too few people will ever see it. When my son eventually comes to clear my house, it will be a much less onerous a task than the one I completed last year. But in some ways, that is rather sad...