The cycle times of technical evolution seem to get faster and faster, which means that for many of us there's not much point in hanging onto old technology: there's always something cooler coming down the pike. The true geek, of course, relishes hanging on to ancient equipment, ideally with all of its original packaging intact. I'm only a geek manqué, so I don't own the first Apple or any Spectrum hardware, but even I have several bottom drawers stuffed full of knackered tech gear, a horrible spaghetti of old data leads, power cords, and mysterious bits of moulded plastic. I keep it because it might come in handy one day, or something: because one day I may decide to field-strip that Psion Organiser and get it back into daily use? Because I need the custom cabling for a printer that I no longer own?

I know, of course, that the grown-up, David Allen Getting Things Done thing to do would be to sort through all this kibble methodically and give some to charity, some to friends who might need it, and then dispose of the rest responsibly, freeing up some much-needed storage space and delivering myself from the immeasurable but very real psychic burden of hanging on to the dead-ends in my own gadget evolution.

However, I think it's good to be reminded that I really thought it was a great idea to buy that Palm IV Organiser, that I showed it off at parties with pride. And perhaps knowing that I have a Scientific Atlanta two-megapixel camera in my sock drawer will stop me parting once again with my hard-earned cash next time I find myself with an irresponsible condition and credit card in the electronics franchise of an international airport.

I suppose that I also think one day that it might be amusing to show my son the stuff we thought was cool back in the day, so that he can pick up one of my ancient iPods and marvel at its tiny storage and clunky interface, although a future imaginary nostalgia kick seems a high price to pay in sweater and underwear storage.

With networked equipment, it's a little different, because the web has given anything with a browser a new lease of life. I've got a bunch of old Macs and PCs which are too slow for using in anger, but which run a perfectly decent browser, and these faithful old retainers are still in service, much to my surprise – a G3 Wallstreet Apple notebook from the early 1990s (thank you, Industry Standard) is still rocking out just fine, as are various no-name PC laptops.

It's quite a testament to the power of the internet revolution that this gear is still in service. Once the standard protocols of the internet came along, any gear that could render HTML and give you a basic browsing experience suddenly had tremendous value – and continues to have. If a piece of equipment made it into the web era, it has utility, because we can all find value online.

In fact, trying to get your head around what was exciting about computers before the web came along is going to be pretty hard for my son's generation to figure out. I've reached the point where a computer that isn't networked feels broken: it can't fulfil it's primary function of connecting me to the rest of my digital life, and so it feels pointless, as useless as a mobile phone without a signal. If I create something with a computer, I'm going to want to share it with someone.

The dizzy pleasures of some defunct personal organiser, which didn't even connect to a PC, let alone the internet, but instead relied on me typing in my contacts via an alphanumeric keypad, are going to be pretty hard to explain. On the other hand, I still have one of my dad's old slide rules, which he used in his work as an engineer, and perhaps some of this stuff will have the same air of mysterious utility (and let's face it, black magic. Did my father really construct North Sea oil platforms based on sums he did with two sliding pieces of plastic?).

In the end, what is going to consign all these machines to the recycling facility is the eerie sense that they all contain strange random digital footprints: old documents from jobs I'd rather forget, ancient e-mail threads, strange haircuts that no one should have to see, and cryptic yet slightly ominous Outlook Tasks ("Sort out contributor problem. Once and for all.") I'm not much of a pack-rat when it comes to analogue data, and I'm brutal when it comes to throwing away old letters and other papers, so it seems odd to hang on to a random digital archive. Eventually, it all has to go...

How about you? Do you throw away last year's model when the new one arrives, or are you content to let evolutionary layers of digital garbage build up in your basement or attic? Let me know in the comments below or via e-mail at michael.parsons@gmail.com

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Michael Parsons helped to launch The Industry Standard magazine, and was the launch Editor of CNET.co.uk