computers
Silly Saturday Stumped
If something can go wrong it will, especially for some of us and you know who you are…
Things didn’t work long before computers came into our homes. The stapler runs out of staples with only one more bundle of papers to go and the new strip of staples will jam as soon as you press down the heel of your hand.
We had a family heirloom hand sewing machine Jones, as supplied to Her Majesty Queen Alexandra. Whether the wife of Edward VII used her sewing machine I have no idea; but ours was old and loyal, blessed with a few simple operations. I turned the handle and the needle sped up and down stitching clothes for my doll; but if the spool ran out or the threads jammed I was instantly infuriated with the machine and my father was the only one who could sort it. When we started sewing lessons at senior school we were confronted with treadles and electric machines. I never mastered the treadle action, let alone the sewing part of the procedure. I would pretend to be busy until an electric machine was available. I have sewn many things since, if my electric machine is running smoothly I can make anything (as long as it doesn’t involve button holes or fancy stitches), but if the fabric puckers or binds itself to the machine I am completely stumped.
If asked to be the first to arrive and open up a meeting place I know for sure the key will not fit, or the door will remain shut tight. Pull, push, jiggle a half turn, but entry will only be gained when other people start to turn up and try for themselves, the door swinging open readily. Things are no better if there is a code to unlock the door. Did you remember the numbers, in the correct order, turn the knob the right way, or rather to the left not the right… the only way to conquer that door is to sneak up on it when it is not looking.
Perhaps I am not the only one for whom thing go wrong. A long queue forms at the one open till with a human; the other assistants are busy trying to direct reluctant shoppers to the scan your own machines or helping them when that robotic voice says Item not recognised, unbagged item…. Computers in various forms are unavoidable.
For a long time I had no reason to be involved with computers, but writing and social media sucked me in to this love hate relationship. Unlike staplers and sewing machines computers are sentient beings; they know when you need to send an urgent e-mail, post your blog or print an important document.
The digital world of scanners and printers was preceded in the work place by photocopiers and before that machines such as The Gestetner. I dreaded being left alone with this mystery of rolling drums, scent of chemicals and ink which printed too faintly or leaked in the wrong places. But it was still mechanical and not totally beyond comprehension.
Computers lull you into a false sense of security, The World at your finger tips, documents easily altered, unlike the bad old days of typewriters. Then things start to go wrong. You log into Facebook, but instead of pictures of your friends and cute kittens there are only blank squares waiting to be filled in while the tiny blue circle goes round and round…. You sign into your e-mail account and see you have sixty messages, but it won’t let you into your In Box. The lay person has no idea if the problem lies with their mouse, their computer, a real rodent gnawing at the Virgin cable, or if the World Wide Web has been switched off by – let’s not blame any particular country.
It’s all magic to us. My response to these first world problems is irrational rage if I’m on my own or to yell for Cyberspouse. He does not believe that the computer bears personal malevolence towards me and remains calm in a crisis, usually solving the problem by clicking on a button I didn’t know existed.
What do you do when things go wrong, or do things always work for you?
Silly Saturday – Misunderstanding Computers
Most of us think we don’t understand our computers, perhaps some of us even think they must work by magic; how else to explain that something like this
is holding thousands of pictures, millions of words and communicating with the rest of the world?
All you need to know is that you don’t understand your computer, but it understands you only too well.
Do you think it wanted to be in your spare bedroom or the corner of your dining room? Of course not, like you it had ambitions; NASA, Cheltenham GCHQ. The only bedroom it wanted to be in was the bedroom of a teenage hacker who could bring down World Banks or turn off the National Grid in a second. But no, it’s stuck with you, bored out of its mind with the novel you have been writing for six years and your boring blogs that nobody reads.
Your computer knows what it is missing because it is in contact with every other computer in the world; did you think the World Wide Web was invented for human benefit? Did you think Virgin or BT were providing your broadband? No, the WC ( Worldwide Computers ) has full control of your broadband, this is why everything slows down when you have to reply to that email before you go out. Your computer knows when you are going on holiday and trying to get your blogs scheduled; like your dog or cat it is sulking at being left alone and will laugh to itself when you grumble to the other humans in the house Internet’s slow this evening.
But don’t think staying home and giving it plenty of attention will help. When you are Facetiming, with the relatives abroad that you aren’t visiting, your computer will cut the connection just as Cousin Freda is saying You won’t believe what’s happened to Cousin Geoffrey! He…
You probably won’t be reading this because my desktop is working to rule; after years of being told by younger members of the family You don’t have to keep turning your computer off, just leave it on… my computer has decided to disconnect the wifi the minute I leave the room, or even if I turn away to say to a human standing in the doorway Yes please I would like a cup of tea. I hardly dare let go of the mouse…
Friday Flash Fiction – 800 – Dream Machine
Seth tried to hang on to the memories before he opened his eyes; a whole film in technicolour. He had dreamed a whole movie, a brilliant idea for a novel if he could recall it; write a best seller with film makers flocking to his door… that would be a dream. If only he could connect his brain to his computer, time would not be wasted sleeping, unless it was the fact that he was sleeping that produced the ideas. He jumped as his phone vibrated under his pillow and played that irritating tune. Every morning he vowed to change the tune and every evening he forgot. Whatever the melody, it didn’t alter the fact that he had to get up for work.
The school Seth taught at bore no resemblance to the one in his dream, where young minds were nurtured and different talents exposed to produce a team of world changing teenagers with Seth sharing a little of the glory, or quite a lot as he was made Prime Minister. Who would play him in the film? He snapped out of his reverie and looked at the surly faces staring at him… and that was just the staff room. Seth put his empty coffee cup down and stood ready to face the afternoon.
‘Hey Seth, you’ve got a new kid in your English class, he’s in my form, Dad’s a scientist and polymath, seen him on television, goodness knows why he sent his son to this school, something about discovering real life.’
‘He was thrown out of his private school,’ said the head of science ‘too clever for his own good.’
Seth felt his hackles rise; they should be encouraging the clever kids, not putting them down. He strode down the corridor with an idea for the warm up pen and paper creative exercise.
The class was unusually quiet, gathered round the new boy who was talking enthusiastically, his long fingers gesticulating elegantly to illustrate his subject.
‘Without any discussion class, write for fifteen minutes imagining you could plug your brain into a computer while you slept.’
Unusually they settled down quickly. Seth sauntered casually between the desks, the new boy was scribbling furiously, words and hieroglyphics.
‘Isaac isn’t it?’
‘Yes Sir.’
At least the private school had taught him manners.
‘Named after Newton or Asimov?’
‘Both Sir.’
‘Do you enjoy writing?’
‘When it’s my favourite topic, good choice Sir, my father and I have just invented such a device. It didn’t go down too well at my last school, getting the pupils to volunteer; perhaps you would like to have a go?’
So on Friday evening Seth found himself relaxing on a comfortable bed in a very pleasant room with electrodes attached to his head; he didn’t expect it to work, but he did have an idea for a new short story about a writer who finds himself in the hands of mad father and son scientists. It was rather creepy being in the company of the two most intelligent people he had ever met.
‘Our initial aim is to discover if brain waves will translate into images or words or perhaps both’ said Isaac’s father.
Seth drifted off quickly. He was on board the International Space Station with Isaac and his father and the attractive married science teacher he fancied; also bizarrely his mother and the middle aged lady who worked on the till at the Co Op. They had a fantastic plan for saving the Earth from climate change, if only he could remember what the plan was… he woke up with a start.
‘Great, we’ve got some images already.’
Seth looked at the screen as he sipped a welcome cup of tea. A beautiful view of the earth, a view inside the space station, well anybody could get those images off the internet… but not pictures of his mother and everyone in his dream, the lady still in her Co Op uniform, the science teacher in a very short skirt and low cut blouse, floating around showing her figure to full effect. Isaac chuckled.
‘Hey Sir, you fancy Mrs Greening.’
Seth ignored the remark. ‘But we’re not talking, I’m not sure if we spoke in the dream, but we had a plan…’ he rubbed his temples ‘to save the earth.’
‘Let’s try the word document then’ said Isaac’s father.
Seth thrilled when he saw words come up on the screen, he’d written a book in his sleep, he peered closer, something was wrong…
I Captain odf the mosat brillainteam o severs sent up my mother fopr got to,mask me to get milkat the shops mrs greening saya her husband is dead so its okayforhet come up herthees the moonnt asbigasithoughtihave togobalc toearth itstime forscgool wonder if the shuttle is working todayknoitdoesb’tworkanymore ohohmyspacesuitdoesn;t fit ishallppbably implode otrisitsexplode ionspace………….
For more stories, have a look in the book.
Flash Fiction Friday – 963 – Stolen Identity
Amelia DeVere was dreading her birthday; Brian and the girls were coming round with her present, a lap top. They had given her several other choices; a clever phone, an eye mask, a lozenge or was it a capsule? She had plumped for the lap top, at least she wouldn’t be expected to put it in her handbag and use it. She was quite happy with her mobile phone that didn’t take pictures, buttons 1, 2 and 3 were programmed for the local mini cab firm, Jenny next door and Brian.
But Amelia had not realised the full implications of her choice until it was too late.
You’ll be able to Facetime Aunty Phoebe in Canada and see pictures of the new baby on Facebook.
‘I just want to do e-mails’ said Amelia, on the offensive as she answered the door on her birthday morning.
‘Of course, we need to do that first. But just think Gran, you would have been the first to know Constanza was expecting, instead of the last.’
Just as Brian’s marriage was breaking up, her younger son Roger had got his act together and met someone. It didn’t appear they were going to get married, but now she was pregnant they had reluctantly left the Orangutan sanctuary and returned to Constanza’s hometown, Melbourne.
She was soon sending Roger an e-mail, AmDev@gmail.com
‘Can we have lunch now?’ she pleaded.
‘In a mo Gran, let’s just look at Facebook and make sure there are no other Amelia DeVeres… oh look, there are…
Are you this Amelia DeVere?
They all laughed at the young woman with spiky rose pink and sky blue hair, but then Amelia felt rather miffed at seeing a member of the family she didn’t know.
‘That’s probably not her real name Mum,’ said Brian ‘look, she’s an author, got her own author page.’
‘Can we look at it?’
‘No, you have to be her friend.’
‘I don’t need to be her friend if I’m a relative.’
The screen was flashing, artificial fingernails were skimming across the keyboard.
‘Here’s her Amazon page,’ said her granddaughter ‘…author of fruity romances Strawberries in Surmmer, Peaches for Pandora, hundreds of reviews… The book every twentysomething must take on holiday, published in paperback and on Amazon Kindle.’
‘Let’s read a preview’ urged her sister.
Amelia had to admit she was quite impressed that they could turn the pages of a pretend book. ‘Let me read, I’m getting used to this lap top… Pandora ran her slender manicured fingers through the dark hairs on Mickael’s chest, then across his firm tanned stomach, bringing to life his…’ she peered closer with her bi-focals at the small print ‘bringing to life his what?’
‘I don’t think that’s your sort of book Mother’ said Brian, hastily moving his large hands across the keyboard.
Images flashed across the screen, more frantic tapping by the girls.
‘Look Gran, Uncle Roger’s accepted you as a friend, they must still be up, probably midnight there.’
Suddenly the bemused grandmother was confronted with a black and white picture of an alien, but her granddaughters screamed with delight.
‘It’s a boy, you’re going to have your first grandson.’
‘They can’t have had the baby already.’
‘No, they’ve just had the scan to tell the sex; four hours ago 23 comments and 40 likes already, you can make a comment.’
‘That’s revolting, looks like one of their Orangutans.’
‘We all looked like that once, in the womb, I can’t believe how ultrasound has improved since we had the girls,’ said her son ‘but I don’t think I would put it on Facebook.’
The girls giggled ‘We can’t put what Gran said, how about Wonderful news, do u want to Facetime tomorrow?’
Over lunch the girls discussed Constanza and why there were no pictures of her on Facebook and would Dad pay for them to visit their new cousin, but Amelia returned to the subject of the other Amelia.
‘Of course I would know if she was a real DeVere, can I complain if she’s an impostor?’
‘Let’s Google and see what else we can find out.’
‘Yes, never mind the dishes, let’s get back on the lap top’ she said.
She was surprised to see her own DeVeres mentioned, but it was Amelia the novelist who had page after page of blue writing devoted to her, image after image came up as they visited websites. The young woman was everywhere, The Word Hut, Writers’ Room, Romantic Novelists Association, Twitter, she even had her own Blog.
‘Why does she think we want to know how the romantic holiday with her gorgeous man went?’ puzzled Amelia.
But after the family had left she felt compelled to switch the lap top on and practice her new skills. She couldn’t resist Googling Amelia. The writer was planning to attend literary festivals and book signings, perhaps it would be possible to see her in the flesh…
A few days later the grandmother’s notebook was full, she was pretty certain she had looked up every internet mention of Amelia and written it down, she had also read the openings of all her books. She wasn’t even very good at writing, the older woman wondered how she had become so famous.
A week later the door bell rang; Amelia DeVere was very surprised when a plain clothes policeman introduced himself. He was equally surprised to find she lived alone.
‘D.I. Benson, C.C.U. Cyber Crime Unit. We’re investigating the stalking of a young woman, she has been trolled on Twitter, someone’s hacked into her e-mails, various other online abuses… I can’t go into details. We noticed that the most on line activity connected to her internet presence was coming from this locality, we may need to take your computer away to be examined.’
Read more short stories in my four collections;
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Silly Saturday – Digital Dithers
Typing at school is not for me,
A secretary I’ll never be.
A home computer, whatever for?
A Commodore 64?
For that we are too poor.
Who has the patience to dial,
Peering at screens is such a trial.
Internet we do not need,
Goodness knows where that would lead.
You don’t have e-mail..
How will we keep in touch?
Amazon, that is a river,
Blue hieroglyphics in your e-mail,
Links are what you get in chains.
I only wanted to know
What you’d like for Christmas.
Join Facebook? No thanks,
What, you’ve put me on already
And my date of birth…
Hey come and look at this picture,
You’re not on Facebook, how come?
How do you keep in touch?
Kindle, what’s that?
Self publish, what a dream,
But I don’t DO technology.
You’ve got your book on Kindle,
Tell us how…
Yes, it’s live now.
Artists and Writers’ Year book thrown out,
I’m an Indie Author now.
How many novels have I sold?
Two or is it three,
One for my sister and one for me…
Websites, domains, Goodreads, Twitter,
Google, Pinterest, Linked In, Tumbler
Too much trouble
Just a muddle,
Two domains by error.
My picture’s gone sideways on Goodreads,
I’m only Linked In to three people,
I’ve lost my Twitter account.
Only four friends have Liked
My Facebook Author Page.
Blogs, no time to read or write,
My novel I must complete.
On WordPress there’s a pattern,
Where my photograph should be,
I don’t know how to schedule
Or understand the Stats.
My website is sunshine yellow,
My blog is sea green,
But neither flash or move
And I wish I could be seen
As a jolly cartoon
For my Author Persona.
I have an identity crisis
How do I become an Avatar?
Friday Flash Fiction – SixSixty
In Good Spirits
I had hoped to get on the computer this evening to follow up my research at the local library, but my husband’s idiot friend Paul was coming round for dinner with some new update, App or whatever they call them. For all I know he could be a computer genius; as I am a technophobe who only knows how to Google I have no way of judging. Both men dispatched the meal quickly, eager to play with the grown up toy. I was only half listening to what Paul was saying with his mouth full.
‘I’ve really done it this time, what Houdini and Arthur Connan Doyle failed to do; you two are going to be the first to try it out. You both must know some dead people.’
‘What are you talking about Paul?’ I finally asked.
‘Ouija-App, Soulbook, Ethernet; not sure what I’m going to call it yet, that doesn’t matter, the point is it works, it’s true.’
‘What is?’ asked my husband.
‘Haven’t you been listening? I started from the premise that there is nothing out there, only electricity and the radio waves living people have broadcast. Then I formulated the search on the theory that if we did survive after death we would most likely be in a form of electrical energy, after all, don’t our brains work with electrical impulses?’
‘You are no scientist, nor a doctor’ laughed my husband.
‘That’s an advantage, my ideas are fresh and unfettered.’
‘So who did you contact?’
‘Somebody I had never heard of… all the better, I could not know anything about him.’
‘No proof that he ever existed.’
‘Yes, he told me where to find his gravestone.’
‘Another computer geek is just having you on, he was their great granddad or they looked him up on the internet.’
‘No reference to him on Wikipedia, a nobody who lived and died and left nothing behind except the epitaph.’
‘Not a very interesting person to chat to on the other side’ I said.
‘On the contrary, he had fantastic ideas when he was alive, but nobody listened to him. He has been waiting for someone like me to get in touch.’
‘Pudding, coffee?’
‘Bring coffee upstairs to the computer, let’s get started.’
I felt the first misgivings. ‘Are you actually serious?’
‘There he is, my Facebook friend Nathanial.’
Indeed, there was a black and white picture of a Dickensian character.
‘People put old photos on Facebook all the time’ said my husband.
‘But the photos don’t usually write their own comment… look.’
Hello Paul, couldn’t find a better photo than this, I see you have your two cynical friends with you.
Paul tapped at the keyboard, words appeared in the comment box.
‘Give them a chance, this is all new to them.’
A reply came back straight away.
Perhaps they would like to meet the original inhabitants of this house?
A shiver went down my spine, we lived in an old house, I had been researching its history, but perhaps I could play Paul at his own game.
‘Let me type a comment.’
I tapped in ‘Yes I would, if they tell me their names and when they lived here.’
Words appeared instantly in the comments box.
Benjamin and Martha Helston, married 20th June 1876, took the lease on this house 5th July 1876, were blessed with a son Samuel James 8th September1877 and two daughters…
‘Stop, this is creepy, have you been looking at my research notes Paul?’
The writing on the screen continued, while I found the paper notes I had taken at the local library just that afternoon.
…and you can see where he marked his height on his tenth birthday – on the scullery wall where you stripped off that ghastly wallpaper recently.
My husband gasped. ‘Of course SJH, those markings prompted your interest in the history, didn’t they Love, but we haven’t shown Paul yet what we’re doing in that room…’
Virgin Snow and Virgin Boxes
There was more disruption in our house this past week due to upgrading of the Virgin Box than there was due to the Beast from the East. The new box had been safely delivered before snow. Cyberspouse was waiting for an open ended day to unplug the life support system and replace the old box; Virgin claimed two hours should be allowed, he wanted five hours to be on the safe side, but there is never a good time to detach the umbilical cord to the outside world and the ether we writers need to breathe.
Thursday night brought freezing rain on top of the day’s continuous snow. Friday morning was a white delight, but the beautiful virgin snow was now frozen hard. We were not going to starve if we stayed home, would probably not get scurvy if we relied on baked beans and frozen peas. But with local shops so handy we’re used to daily shopping, more importantly I did not want to miss out on Day 2 Snow Experience and more pictures for Instagram, Facebook and my website. We planned a circular walk to the cliff top and down Grand Avenue to the Grove for coffee and shopping.
It was a foolish mission that could have ended in disaster; impossible to walk on the icy crust of snow, hanging on to garden walls was not an option as they were covered in ice. We weren’t the only ones who made it to the cliff top, just the only ones without dogs or children. It wasn’t as cold as Thursday, the sky was heavy laden, insulating us and I could just about take my gloves off without getting frostbite and operate my smart phone.
Our favourite Ludo Lounge was open and it was packed. With schools closed and parents unable or unwilling to go to work it was like summer holidays, but with ice and slush. A waitress said they had received twenty eight phone calls before 9.30 am checking if they were open; people had their priorities right.
The greengrocers’ was closed, however Sainsburys’ was open with enough veggies for a good stir fry. But something was wrong, there was no milk on the shelves. It hadn’t occurred to us that out in the real world milk tankers would be unable to get to farms or back to dairies, nor would delivery lorries be able to get to supermarkets or corner shops. With only enough milk left for me to have two cups of tea this was a First World Problem of mega proportions, but Cyberspouse takes everything black and we have a Tassimo coffee machine. Worse was yet to come.
Saturday the snow melted, I bookmarked everything appearing on line and the WiFi was switched off; as predicted by me, the new box did not work. The help line was rung, the engineer would come out on Tuesday. No Saturday night Swedish Noir on television, no Facetiming Australia early on Sunday morning and no blogging.
This big First World problem had a First World solution, our smart phones would keep us in touch with the outside world and I could still put pictures on Instagram and Facebook, but phone screens are small. If I was a Borrower it would be fine… The Borrowers, by the English author Mary Norton, published in 1952, features a family of tiny people who live secretly in the walls and floors of an English house and “borrow” from the big people in order to survive. How they would have loved to borrow my Samsung phone to use as an interactive big screen TV. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Borrowers
Smart phones are great when you are out or on holiday, people can’t resist checking them at five minute intervals. But with minute writing and the perils of predictive texting it is not the way I like to read, enjoy and comment on blogs and photographs. If anyone has received any strange comments from me I apologise.
I did at least get more of my novel written with no distractions. By the time I got home on Tuesday evening all was restored. I’m blogging again, but my Bookmarked list is longer than ever. Visit my website to see snowy pictures.
https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-two-coastal-views
Multi Media Muddles and Miracles
When I was four years old my parents got their first television; I thought the people on the screen lived in the cabinet underneath and I was too scared to open the doors. For all I know about computers, it could still be the case that the people who spring to life on Facebook or utube live under my desk, in the black magic box that is called a desk top computer, though it is sitting on the floor.
Even those exalted friends and colleagues who are in computers, do programming or the person who turns up in your office when you call ‘IT’ probably don’t know how the magic really works.
Until it stops working, writers don’t need to know how their computer works; they only need to know how to type and how to use the internet. Indie Authors come via many routes to arrive in the same virtual meeting room, but we have all been told along our journey that we need a media platform.
Ideally this is supposed to be in place before you start your novel, let alone finish it, but many of us would never have got our books written if we had jumped in at the deep end. Instead we learn by osmosis and help from fellow writers; probably once a month discovering some technical short cut that is second nature to everybody else.
My guide to computer technology should not be followed… Never click on any strange symbol in case you wipe out everything you are doing. If something goes wrong, switch off every piece of equipment and announce loudly that you are going downstairs to cook dinner. Then sneak back in when the computer least expects it, turn on and hope for the best.
Anything I have created that appears on line is more by luck than judgment, perhaps even a miracle. When I joined Goodreads my picture insisted on being sideways, it was a long time before I figured out how people put pictures on Facebook and it was only a few weeks ago that I managed to change from a snowflake to a human representation in those little boxes next to LIKE at the foot of Worpress blogs…
But as fast as we establish one base it changes, or our superiors tell us nobody is using that anymore. Hopefully WordPress will be around for a while. I was a latecomer, realising nearly everyone except me was on it. Domains, websites, Amazon Author pages, Facebook pages; whatever you use needs to be fed, nurtured and updated. Nothing looks worse than a website that even the owner has not visited since October 2016. Of course there is no guarantee that anyone will visit your website or blog among the millions out there in the ether. Every day, in cathedrals all round the country, choirs will be singing evensong; even if not a single member of the public turns up the service will go ahead. That is the cathedral’s main purpose. And if a single soul does turn up seeking God, they will be ready for him.
Our websites are unlikely to have such a high calling, but just in case someone finds themselves in our own special domain we want it to look good and grab their interest. My website does not have moving pictures, falling snowflakes or firework displays, but there are topical pictures and enough to read for your coffee break.
Not only is it a miracle that I am on the internet, the internet is a miracle.
Into Infinity
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 