It’s a beige box, the height of two or three shoeboxes. It’s got a grey nine-inch screen and two slots for floppy discs.
It sits on a bookshelf behind me, peeking out in Zoom calls, leading to knowing smiles from friends of a certain age: my age, middle age. It’s a Macintosh, and it’s utterly iconic, which is appropriate for the machine that introduced the idea of icons to most computer users.