Write, write, and write again

One of my regulars (blog-readers, that is) recently sent me a fascinating article by Ludwig Siegele, Business Editor of the Economist, on “Foundation Models”. Initially, I thought this term was somehow a politically correct replacement for ‘Under Wear’, the word ‘Under’ being deemed either crude, or evocative of serfs being socially under their lord.

I read further and realised instead that Foundation Models are huge Artificial-Intelligence (as opposed to artificial butt-and-boob fillers) algorithms that are much more versatile than earlier forms of AI. According to Siegele, most of the algorithms can write “eerily good prose, analysing a text’s sentiments and explaining jokes.” Hmm, I wonder if he means ‘explaining’ jokes or ‘justifying’ them to the thou-must-not-offend-laugh-or-disagree-with-my-opinions woke brigade.

Planes, Horses and Automobiles

Our Icelandic holiday has had some transportation issues.

The first mode to rear its ugly head – and they don’t come much uglier – was flying. Yes, we flew to Iceland and, surprise, surprise, we flew back, much to the consternation of my email inbox, which must now contain every possible perm and com of: You didn’t fly did you; I trust you didn’t fly; Please tell me you didn’t fly; and You did what?

My conscience however is clear. This is the first time I’ve flown since January 2020 (thank you, Covid) and I won’t be flying again until at least 2024. The only reason I do fly is because Hubby wants to, and as he does loads-a stuff he doesn’t want to that I want to, we give and take and compromise, a concept that is alien to the wokerati, Remainers and the aviation industry.

Twitter Twitter little spat

Way back in mid-November (which feels like a decade ago), I announced to the world that I had joined Twitter, albeit incognito. ‘Twas a big deal for me, a truly momentous occasion, and I devoted a whole blog to it … so, so sad.

Why did I join Twitter?

John Lewis really has lost its way

The go-to store of the British middle class can’t blame Covid or deserted High Streets or Russian hackers for their current woes. I came to that conclusion after 54 minutes trying to buy something very ordinary.

It all started earlier today, at 9:31am, while delivering the Stewkley Grapevine, our brilliant-if-I-say-so-myself village newsletter. Since the lockdown in spring, as opposed to the lockdown coming up, or the mandatory quarantine currently experienced by my sister in Barnsley (Barnsley. Yes. I know) because one of her work colleagues tested positive, I’ve taken a black plastic sack with me and litter-picked the verges and hedgerows. If I were Prime Minister (which is the title of a future blog), I would bring back capital punishment for litter louts. As fast as I clean everything up, more yobs, slags and low-lifes desecrate the countryside rather than take their detritus back to the cesspits they call home.

The Lost Generation

No, I’m not talking about the generation that came of age during the Great War; or the young lives that ended prematurely during either of the two World Wars; or the Yazidi girls abused so heinously by ISIS; or the Bosniak massacred by the Bosnian Serb Army; or the generations suffering ongoing inhumanity in any number of troubled nations, Yemen, Syria, Sudan, to name just three; or the A-level students whose 'lives have been ruined' by a flawed algorithm.

Technophobia

This is my first ever on-line Blog-post. It must be pretty obvious to all and sundry that I don't know what I'm doing. Give me pen and paper or an old-fashioned typewriter and I'm quick off the blocks for a marathon of words, coherent, erudite, confident, ream after ream. But sit me in front of a computer and I stare - transfixed by its potential and its dangers - at the screen, the keyboard, the on-off button, the ctrl-alt-del buttons. My technophobia kicks off my OCD; because I don't understand everything, I can't do anything. 

Is this Blog one techno-step too far? Through necessity since the Covid-19 lockdown, I've used WhatsApp (hijacking my husband's account as I was too scared to set up my own), skyped and face-timed with friends (with drink in hand so we call it skinking and finking), participated in three Zoom meetings, and have just registered for a Webinar with Teams. I have no idea what that last bit means by the way. I just know I've done it and, cometh the day cometh the hour, I'll see whether I've actually sold my soul to the Devil.