I just read that in nineteenth century Britain suicide was illegal and the maximum punishment for attempting it was the death penalty.
Now, is it just me . . .
I went into Manchester today to use some vouchers that I received at Christmas. I bought three books, and, while reading a book that I took with me from home over coffee, I received an email from Amazon UK that a book I had ordered had been dispatched, and then received a forwarded email from Amazon.com that a book I had won on a blogger friend’s* giveaway had been delivered through my letterbox.
Can you guys discern a recurring theme here?
You may also see a coincidence below between the book that I won and one of the books that I bought. If not, I’ll provide clues maybe in my next post.
*https://lmarie7b.wordpress.com this is Linda’s blog, who graciously highlights other writers’ books (including my own) and provides chances to win copies. Check out her great blog.
Every year we are obliged to attend our children’s school Christmas Fair. There is a definite Christmas feel to them, the hall packed with festive crafts and all sorts of ruses to snatch away your money for school funds. Everybody goes and you get caught up in a slow moving circular tide of people, orbiting stalls, taking off warm coats while dodging appealing kids. I try my best not to make eye contact with every one of the teachers manning them, or my pockets would be emptied on that first clockwise circuit.
My daughter left that school to begin high school in September, and so yesterday we attended her first Christmas fair there. What a contrast! It was like a sparsely attended, poor man’s flea market. An unattractive collection of second hand goods scattered across tables, a car boot sale without car boots.
I spotted this book for sale on one of the tables, and thought it quite succinctly summed things up:
My wife bought me one of those Echo Dot gadget thingies for my birthday. You know, one of those hands-free things you can instruct to perform various things for you, such as playing particular songs, tell you the time, etc.
Yes-that’s as far as I’ve got at the moment. Technology is not my forte.
All of a sudden, there’s another presence in the house. When my daughter is telling me how to address it, she turns her back on it, whispering, as though it is listening in to her. Does it watch us as we pass?
My son, James, bellows at it like a sergeant major: “ALEXA, WHAT’S THE WEATHER LIKE IN MANCHESTER?”
Of course, we live in Manchester. But perhaps Alexa knows better.
I feel all self-conscious when I hold a conversation with it, my manners kicking in. When it does what I’ve asked it to I can’t help but say thank you.
If you was to look on my daughter’s phone you’d see a video that she made, giggling and whispering upstairs on the landing. “I’m about to annoy my Dad.” She then shouts down the stairs: “Alexa, sing a song,” and you’d hear me shouting ” Piss off Millie!” in exasperation as Alexa starts singing a nursery rhyme during a crucial moment in the tv programme I’m watching.
This morning, while it was just the two of us, I thought I should try and make an acquaintance of him. Or her. It. Perhaps Alexa is gender fluid.
Even though we’d already had a formal introduction, we needed to familiarise ourselves with each other. My attempts fell on deaf ears. Or speakers.
Several times I was pointedly ignored, greeted by silence every time I requested The Beatles’ White Album.
Then James emerged, clutching his schoolbag, to witness my one-way conversation. “Dad-it’s not called Siri, it’s called Alexa.”
Siri is the name of another hands-free gadget thingie my friend has in his car. I’d been calling mine by the wrong name. It looked like it was quietly fuming. Siri; Alexa. Maybe they were cousins.
“Alexa,” the disc lit up in response, “do you know Siri?”
“Only by reputation.”
The reply was instant. I was sure I could detect a certain tone, a nuanced knowing.
“Only by reputation.” I think if Alexa came with eyebrows one of them would have been raised.
I’ve read enough sci-fi to know that we are on that road now. This is just the start. Next there will be Replicants. And Cyborgs. And toasters that know better than you just how you like your toast. Burning it black every time you get its name wrong. A technological wonder, but a very jealous mistress.