Rage Against The Machine

Brooks (Shawshank Redemption) was right “the world went and got itself in a big damn hurry”; which is especially true in the case of technology.

My first phone was a Siemens C45 – an absolute fossil by today’s models but at least you didn’t need an instruction manual to use it!  Now I have a phone that has features I’m wholly unsure of and which I suspect, is a transformer in disguise!  Here me out on this I have proof, the other day I was minding my own business trying to Mr Miyagi a fly in the living room when a mystical light flashed on the display and it spoke to me!!!  It freaked me out so much I switched it off and hid it in a cupboard for an hour which seemed to do the trick, although I remain vigilant around it and maintain a watchful eye.  Unconfirmed sources have suggested it could be the work of “Siri?!” which sounds like either a white witch or a nasty water infection, but I’m not buying it and still live in the hope that Bumblebee lies beneath its mundane glass surface.

Then there’s the whole wi-fi debacle, people are obsessed with it and ‘hot spots’ – which still sound to me like the best part of the beach to get a tan and then there’s this “roaming” business; which sounds a bit seedy to me, as though some creep in a mac behind a bush is about to jump you.  My main knowledge of the wi-fi is that it comes from the magical box which causes my husband’s router rage to surface.  It’s a condition, or it should be, you’ve never known such a normally placid person to fly off the handle so quickly and turn such a puce colour; think distressed rhubarb, or in my post workout case; jaundiced beetroot.

What gets my goat are the self service tills which are guaranteed to fail to recognise a bar code when it’s an item you’d prefer to buy discreetly, but at least they subtly draw assistance from one person rather than having a checkout girl loudly announce over the tannoy that she’d needs a price check on a tube of KY!  And while we’re on the subject, what’s with the retailers trying to shame us into paying 5p for a carrier so we don’t feel the shameful glare from store security as we gamefully attempt to strong-arm a collection of random products to the car, the receipt having turned into a soggy roll up dangling from our lips.  As you may have gleaned, I try to reject the charge as much as possible just to spite them, besides I was obsessed with Crocodile Dundee growing up and live for the moment a shoplifter or mugger might dash pass me giving my inner vigilante the green light to launch a can of chicken soup or baked beans at their unsuspecting bonce!

Sat navs are another case of bad tech for me.  I admit they’re a clever invention, but for me they’ll always remain an in case of emergency break class type of help.  They stress me out.  For starters everyone of them is guaranteed to have a voice that grates me and I always feel patronised by them, they’re the worst form of back seat driver!  What’s wrong with an old fashioned map?!  Sure I’ve got eyes that require lenses the thickness of jam jars, but with a map you’re on an adventure, you’re Colin McRae about to haul ass round a rally track, and you get to scream instructions like “not that left, your other left” and test the limits of your braking system!

Then there are the voice activated telephone systems that test the endurance of my patience unlike anything else, doodling a hangman grinding my teeth through the tedious options as the fury inducing robot then upgrades me to another selection box with no hope of a Crunchie in sight!

I’d say my level of expertise with technology peaked in the days when I worked in an actual office (as opposed to sat at my desk at home in my standard uniform of grumpy cat PJs and Beetlejuice socks – thank god I now avoid dress codes and the inevitable raised eyebrows at my cherished spiderman ring and neon birdcage earrings) tackling the jams in the gargantuan multi function copy printers.  Guaranteed no matter how carefully I pre checked for staples, I’m talking CSI attention to detail, one of those blighters would always snag.  Usually I’m always wary of approaching technology owing to how much I naturally repel it; to date I’ve set fire to two toasters and exploded a microwave, but to my surprise I became quite adept at unjamming those mighty cogs of industry.  Many a fist pump and chest bump (more painful on the boobs than it looks) was had in the reprographics room as I emerged victorious, hands speckled black with toner, as I triumphantly held aloft the rogue sheet of A4.

However*lowers voice conspiratorially* it must be said that there are other hazards of working open plan; I suspect my efforts in hardware support may have been undone when, owing to a partner’s fondness for walking past my desk at regular intervals, I engaged the old #fingersoffury (I dread to think results a Google search would churn out for that search!) I turned maniacal pianist striking the keys at random, the satisfying sounds of industry, but in my eagerness knocked over a can of coke onto the keyboard; cue my best “vacant” look at the IT chap’s interrogation.  Thankfully having caught the odd episode of CSI I had dusted it down for prints in the five minutes prior and used a cheap battery powered hand fan to dry it out (although those things should come with a warning label themselves – I can’t be the only one that’s had to cut out chunks of hair as a result of an attention span to rival Dory!).

Although you can’t beat a game of naughts and crosses in the internal mail!

Anyway, that’s enough of my bug bears for one day.

Lots of love


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