My computer and I have a special relationship. I don’t talk to it. I don’t yell at it and it’s smudge and dust free. NOT! My DNA is deeply embedded in the keyboard along with the crumbs and bits of tissue (both kinds), an attempt at cleaning it having failed miserably.
No spit available. That was used to clean your kid’s faces before wipes were invented. Spit on your index finger, copy and paste onto your kid’s face. To get back to my love-hate relationship with my digital data processing machine I’m no techno kid, more of a Wilma Flintstone, without the ginger-double-bun-updo.
With the maiden name of Slaghoople I’m not surprised she married the first stone age man she saw. I digress and my CPU is beeping profanities at me. The motherboard has short circuited from too much spit and the data is base. The input is outputted and the rat refuses to co-operate. I mean the mouse, not my husband.
You know that feeling when you click and point and the cursor disappears. You click again swivelling and sliding. Where’s that bludy arrow gone. No! I don’t want that page. No! I’m not interested in ‘How to’ sites of any kind.
I just want one little piece of information. Is that too difficult for you, Big Guy CPU. Can’t Process UggAll. You’re just a random piece of ugly plastic that needs to be plugged in before you spit and sputter. At least us human beings can operate without three prongs. So, Yabba Dabba Doo to you!
THE FOUNTAIN OF KNOWLEDGE
Now I am amazed that my index finger hasn’t exploded already. Why? Well, it’s the fountain of all knowledge. It’s the key to Google. Every time I need to copy a favourite poem or lyrics or some salient facts from a particular site, I press my index finger very gently on the appropriate article.
Select. Hey presto! Now it’s stored. Very very carefully I move that same finger away and hold it aloft ensuring it doesn’t touch anything. There is no way I want to lose all the information I have stored in said digit.
With bated breath I open a new page and then very quickly I press that same finger onto the blank page and paste. Sheer magic. Words and images appear faster than I can blink.
It’s such fun downloading info from the computer into my finger that I spend hours selecting, copying, and pasting and totally forget why I’m doing it. I develop a condition called Digital Overload.
My index finger has grown out of all proportion and needs support. I contact the helpline for advice. ‘Are you a robot,’ is the response. Then a series of weird shaped letters and numbers appear on the screen. I’m supposed to retype them. Huh! Beyond my capabilities. I try a different helpline. Surprisingly, a human voice answers. It’s John Smith in Mumbai. My Irish accent and lack of knowledge in computer terminology makes for a very frustrating conversation.
He advises me to shut down my computer. I oblige. ‘John, what do I do now?’ I query. ‘John? John? Anyone there? Galway calling Mumbai. Come in, Mumbai.’ No response. Unfortunately, I’m now uploaded, digitized, rebooted, with an “abend” which is an abnormal end to my story.
Information overload is not in my brain but in my index finger. That’s why I don’t remember anything. That same finger is permanently hooked and crooked waiting for the next train ride into the Land of Google. Select all. Copy. Paste.
PICK AND MIX
I wonder can we do that with men? Like the info we garner online, just copy and paste the bits we like the most. A bit of this, a bit of that and a bit of the other, no pun intended. Creating the perfect partner to suit ourselves, bespoke and original. Where shall I start? Good humoured.
An excellent cook. Knows how to manoeuvre a hoover. Answers when spoken to. Actually, hears you when you speak. That characteristic alone is every woman’s dream. A man who knows what Manolo Blahnik, Louboutin and Jimmy Choo’s are.
A man of substance, more virtual than virtual and really does exist. Pinch me! Wealthy, wise and not too wizened. Might turn out to be a nightmare and rather boring. So, I will let that idea brew for a while.
Isn’t it amazing that a small piece of plastic can store loads and loads of information from 4 gigabytes to over 120? Byte is a unit of digital information with 8 bits and one gigabyte can store a truck full of books.
What? No way! I tested out this theory. Not being the owner of a truck, I hired one. I struggled to drive it as my short legs didn’t quite reach the pedals. Eventually I got to the library and with a nod and a wink and a bit of flattery I persuaded the librarian to let me borrow enough books for the experiment.
Bless her cotton socks she even helped me load them onto the truck. A few hours later I sank onto the couch totally exhausted. Tony Buzan’s ‘Speed Reading’ and ‘Use your Memory’ did help initially but the task of reading and typing zillions of words frazzled my brain and wore the fingerprints off my digit.
The memory stick was as cool as a cucumber and had an air of insouciance mocking me to save more information. I’m sure I heard it say – ‘You can’t do this.’ Six months later feeling totally ‘wordless’ and delirious I gave up. The small bit of plastic had proven me wrong.
The fine for not returning the library books on time was astronomical as was the final bill from the truck company. Something to do with bent fenders and cracked mirrors. Well, no-one told me a truck full of books can’t be driven into your home.
My memory stick now resides on a silk cushion and every time I pass it I bow in reverence. Once gigabyten twice shy.
I have written two novels available on Amazon