Technology is a dual-edged sword that really is all pervasive in our modern life, isn't it? Hell, I'm using technology to have a little rant here: I'm sitting at a computer and I'm soon going to click on 'Publish' and send my prose into cyberspace for the hopeful enjoyment of you, the reader. It's great for me as a writer - all I need do when researching is usually type a few words into a search engine and there will be a veritable cornucopia of choices and links for me to peruse. This doesn't stop me from preferring to speak to an actual person who is experienced in the field about which I have chosen to write. My household goes into meltdown if there is a power outage. How am I meant to brew my coffee? Have a hot shower? The other downside to technology is automated voice assistance when ringing financial institutions or government departments. Some years ago, I acquired some shares through an inheritance. Not enough to keep me dripping in diamonds by any means, but enough to perhaps send out for a pizza, maybe, depending upon how capricious and skittish the share market has been. Because I am to confer with an account tomorrow morn, I needed to ascertain some franking credits over the past financial year.
This afternoon I finished my cup of tea, and dialled the number provided on the company correspondence, squinting and cursing because I had left my glasses in the other room. I was greeted by a recorded voice telling me to state my customer ID number, which I actually did incorrectly. I occasionally wonder how these computers are equipped to cope with anybody who is heavily accented. Maybe the circuits are designed to 'read' any algorithms that might appear in voice prints. Shit, I don't know. This might be a question for Google, when I can be bothered to check it out. There are times when I get so frustrated dealing with recorded voice technology, I am tempted to announce my name as 'Mike Hunt', just to hear the smooth, dulcet, velvet-dipped-in-moisturiser tones enunciate 'You are my cunt. Is this correct?' Anyway, whatever the machine wanted to ask me today, once I had stated my customer number correctly, was what I wanted to know. What I want to know is why I cannot speak to a bloody person anymore! I said something like 'franking credits', and then it said it would direct me to the correct department. This it did not. It asked me another question just as I was swearing, and then it asked, 'I heard 'financial year'. Is this correct?' No, mate; not quite. What you heard was me muttering, 'Fucking hell!' Finally - FINALLY! - I got the information I needed, and not from another carbon-based lifeform, but a machine. Sigh.
There's something I've been wondering today. I saw an article about a person who was able to 'think' herself thin. She lost a substantial amount of weight, which I'm sure is beneficial to her health. The article was accompanied by 'before' and 'after' shots. Now, this is what got me thinking, and it's something I see in other stories about successful dieters. In the before shots, they always have the disgusted grimace of somebody who has just fellated a syphilitic camel. The hair is lank and greasy, and the clothing is drab. In the after shot, not only are they sylph-like compared to their former selves, but I am led to believe that a loss in weight is accompanied by the acquisition of a makeup artist, wardrobe consultant, and a hairdresser. Oh, and they suddenly realise they know how to smile, too. Am I alone in this theory?
I've not been writing much these past few days. It's school holidays and (1) hard to concentrate, and (2) kids keep hogging the damn computer. I shooed them away from it this evening so I could pour out my crazy quagmire of thoughts, and just see if I can still be creative on spec. Yesterday I took them on an outing to my home town, to get them out of the house, and because I wanted to see the plaque where my father's ashes have been interred. If you don't know because you haven't followed my blog, Dad's ashes were recently interred in my brother's grave, where my mother's ashes are also placed. We placed Dad's ashes back in April, but the plaque was affixed to the 'slab' only over the past month, and I wanted to see it. We took flowers there. Yesterday was my eighteenth wedding anniversary. On my wedding day, I handed my bridal bouquet to my father so he could place it on Mum's grave. Yesterday, in a poignant and bittersweet coincidence, I was placing flowers for Dad on that 'same' day. As I fiddled with my phone to get a photograph of the plaque, with a view to sending it to my sister, my twelve-year-old started to cry. 'What's the matter?' I sighed, thinking his older brother had been bloody teasing AGAIN. He pointed and wailed, 'Pop's grave!' I held him close for a long time, just cuddling him. Poor little lamb. He's normally as happy and bright as a box of budgies, but he does grieve for his Pop, and being at the cemetery must have been a fresh and bitter reminder. He did not attend the actual interment, although his brother accompanied me that day for support. Speaking of his brother, I was pleased he brought along is iPad that day, because he got some very nice pictures of the plaque, and I was able to share them with family. The ones I took on my phone were utter crud.
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