Rewritten by machine on new technology

Ah, do you remember those simple times, when all one had to do was press a switch, in order to turn lights on and off?

I thought fondly of this the other night, when G and I were simultaneously bellowing at Alexa/Echo to turn the sodding bedroom/living room lights off.  It turns out our smart home gadgets are less obedient when we’ve both got streaming colds. We might as well have been speaking Klingon.

G had a particularly bad time of it.  I had to look at the app just to see what it thought he was saying.  Yes, we have a bedroom light called Spike. What of it?

G:  “Dim Spike to 20%”   (translation: Do you like to take a note?)
G:  “Dim Spike to 20%”   (translation: Turn swicord twenty)
G: “FFS. Dim Spike to 20%!!”  (translation: Do you know spike to twenty?)
G: “DIM SPIKE!!!!”   (translation: Do you spy?)

Ålso, this little beauty…

G: “Add baby wipes to shopping list”   (translation: Play ‘White Christmas’, by Bing Crosby)

Tee Hee!

But still, at least she’s not Siri. There’s a limit to how many always-listening corporate AIs I’m willing to cohabit with, and someone really needs to teach that relentless, cyberstalking, waste of space that “no” means “no”.  Ever since I disabled him on my new Mac, he’s been bombarding me with thrice-hourly pop-ups asking if I want to re-enable him. What does it take to get rid of the annoying bugger?

In domestic news, I’ve finally made some progress (with excellent hanging assistance from my big sis) on the much procrastinated wall of illustrations for the kids’ bedroom stairway.

It’s not finished but I’m v pleased with how it’s looking so far.  When the boy saw it he ran up and down the stairs and hugged every picture. Bless.

Alas, the rest of the flat is…  gargh!  Such daily tippage, I can barely cope. Even if I got rid of the kids and their unrelenting squalor, there’d still be a million unfinished jobs. Maybe we’ll get around to those in 2018…

As if to compensate for the scribble all over the bathroom door, Hubble’s deadly cuteness has reached critical pitch. It’s probably the only reason she’s still alive.  In the few moments per day when she’s not wrecking our residence, she tootles around like an adorable gremlin, giggling at her own cheekiness and saying “Dee-da!” (which I have only just worked out means “Tilda”).

Also, when I’m reading bedtime stories, she’s picked up on the boy’s eternal demands for “another chapter!” and has started popping her head over the cot side and saying “Mummy! Chapcha!” if I look like I might be about to slope off. Adorabubble.

The boybot has had quite a good run of bedtime stories lately. G’s been reading him the Pugly ones and Mr Gum, and I’ve just done A Piglet Called Truffle (very Dick King Smith) and the first of the Secret Seven books.  The SS one was a romping good read, actually.  It made us both laugh out loud a couple of times, when we weren’t too busy speculating on the mystery.  It’s not exactly a shining beacon of feminism, but I suppose you can’t have everything – and I doubt the boy picked up on such nuances.

Film fad of the weekend was Jumanji, which might have been bordering on a bit scary, but we watched it together and the boy really loved it.  Also Ponyo has joined the ranks of beloved Studio Ghibli films. (Thank you, P & T!)

Last, but not least, I am pleased to report that we are once again pox-free, and Hubble’s smooth little face has re-emerged from under the sea of spots. Hooray!


So – all that remains is to wish you all a happy Year of the Cock, and brace myself for the on-going apocalypse. Toodle pip.

About Susan Flockhart

Bonsai lady-geek and blogger. I can hardly recall what I used to blog about pre-microbes, but these days I generally ramble about motherhood, nonsense and whatever's going on the world of tiny people
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