Conspiracy of technology

Dedicating the contents of this column two months ago to the vagaries of modern technology certainly seemed to hit a nerve with a number of Southern Cross readers who asked why I had not mentioned anything about that very epitome of all that is hi-tech: the computer.

The answer is simple. A long time ago I vowed to abstain from writing about computers, particularly during Lent. But, with Lent over and given my inability to abstain from anything for any great length of time, I have decided to bow to popular demand and put pen to paper as I recall a little tryst I had with computerisation a few years ago.

It was a happy day. Bright blue skies, warm breezes whispering through the trees. No meetings. Just time to catch up. Time to smell the roses. Turned on my computer to write a column on some joy or other of modern communication.

But instead of that wonderful picture of a screensaver sunset appearing on my screen, I got a terse message saying something about not being able to find an EXE and would I like to (a) try again (b) cancel or (c) go outside and hurl myself in front of a 15-ton cement truck.

I tried option (a) and was told that the EXE thingy remained elusive but that the other two options were still definitely open. I clicked on “cancel” so hard the little ball fell out of the bottom of the mouse.

No problem, I would mosey on down to my nearest internet café, order a cup of exotic coffee and use their computers. Nothing like having plan B. Walked into the garage after having to override the automatic door opener because the spaniel puppy had eaten the piece of wire leading from the microprocessor to the motor. Even managed to avoid getting my finger caught between the door and the wall.

As I said, it was a happy day.

Aimed my remote key at my car and pushed the button. Nothing. No indicators flashing a welcoming tattoo, no assuring little squeak. Just dead silence. I remember seeing something in the handbook about what to do when the remote conked out. It wasn’t much help having the book locked inside the car.

But, it was a happy sort of day, so I hitched a ride on the back of the local chemist’s delivery bike and managed to hobble in to the internet café, sporting a huge bruise on my knee after my intrepid chauffeur got a little too close to another motorbike as we both tried to weave our way through a jam of cars held up at a traffic light that was flashing continuous red because a combi taxi had tried to take a shortcut and had driven over the control box completely destroying the printed circuit board that makes the red, green and amber decisions…

But, it was a happy sort of day because the computers at the internet café were all working, the little mouse ball stayed put when I started clicking on things, and I was still an hour inside my deadline.

Wrote the column, drank the coffee—it was instant incidentally, because the machine broke down when someone tried to get it to pour a capuccino into an espresso cup and the little computer chip that recognises what cup is where did its little digital nut and blew all three fuses which were only available in Italy…

Sent off the e-mail with five minutes to spare but instantly got a message back from some computerised cretin posing as “the postmaster” saying that the server to which I was sending the e-mail wasn’t responding and that I could either (a) cancel, (b) try again later or (c) hurl myself in front of a 15-ton cement truck.

I tried again and again. Until it got dark. And until my editor called on my cellphone and said that if I didn’t get the story to him in five minutes flat I would not get paid.

I just managed to say the “but…” part of “but your server is down and I can’t get through” when my cellphone went dead, the screen lighting up and saying “no network”.

And if that tiny little computer chip that regulates the amount of cement that is poured automatically into those big cement lorries hadn’t packed up and left the entire fleet stranded, I wouldn’t be alive to tell this tale today.

But, much as we might loathe computers, they do have one quite remarkable and reassuring attribute. They continually demonstrate through their constant failures and foibles just how incredibly clever God was to have created the earth and all upon it—without having to use a computer.