Age and Technology

 One man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages. So says Jaques in As You Like It.

 

He then goes on to enumerate them from infant to old age in rather less than flattering terms. And so  it is with modern technology, at least in my view. Infants from about the age of three can navigate touch screens almost by instinct, since they're too young to read, and can thoroughly mess up a tablet's or phone's settings, make calls and lose saved data as a result. Anyone who has tried to keep an infant amused on a journey by delegating the task to technology would be wise to "baby proof" the device first or forever hold their peace!

The 'Whinlng schoolboy' fares somewhat better, being able to read if not understand the apps on various devices. I'm sure that instinct still plays a part, though, as any seven year old seems able to whizz through various settings and interconnected devices as sure in their touch as a mountain goat in their footing. Some years ago a friend bought the latest VHS player/recorder (remember them?) and had difficulty installing it so that it worked correctly. He rang the shop for help and was surprised to be asked if he had children. My friend conceded that he had a seven year old. "Give it to him" said the shopkeeper, which my friend did. In no time, without consulting manual or adult, the boy had set up the player perfectly and it worked for many years.

The lover is next, so adept and familiar with new or even older technology that they may even have taken a course. Fleet of finger they dazzle onlookers with their sure touch, and humiliate them by the disdain shown to the uninitiated. When asked, they resort to jargon and acronyms to demonstrate their superiority in the subject. Hubris, I suppose, is part of character at a certain age and it finds a perfect outlet in the young technophile.

Shakespeare's fourth and fifth ages I may, for my purpose, combine. Our lover has matured into the IT consultant, the teacher, the professional computer shop worker or salesman. Day on endless day they grapple with their beloved technology, embracing new innovations and developments. Their hubris may have diminished a bit, but they now display impatience to those uninitiated in the finer points of technology lore. They remain, however, on top of their subject.

Eventually though the speed of change begins to leave our expert in its wake. Valiant efforts are made to stay abreast of new technology by absorbing the jargon. Detail is learned in secret away from the workplace so as not to lose face. Practice is exercised by actually reading instruction manuals and relating the learning to the new technology or applications to preserve an appearance of expertise.

Finally, as with all of us, technology outstrips the ability to learn or remember. This can be related to now clumsy fingers or failing mental recall. Memories of the halcyon days of youth abound and fascinate the grandchildren who regard the stories as from the Stone Age. And so generation succeeds generation, while our hero 's erstwhile expertise fades and he meets obscurity sans knowledge, sans expertise, sans everything.

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Fickle

Yesterday, in a downcast mood, I wrote a piece concerning the non-sale of my house. It was more of a moan than anything and certainly not of interest. Today, on re-reading I was thankful that my habit is always to sleep on a "decision" before implementing and the offending piece has been consigned to the bin.

But it got me thinking. I guess we all suffer (is that the right word? experience?) different moods at different times, and for different reasons. Some suffer what Winston Churchill called his " black dog" and what today may well be called bi-polar. Some suffer (definitely not the right word!) euphoric episodes, which must be just as debilitating, but most just get down in the mouth or a little depressed or just somewhere in between the extremes. Fed up is, I believe, the usual generic term.

I'm not about to offer medical explanations, for which I am spectacularly unqualified, nor am I going to try any analysis for which I am equally inept. However there must be some explanation for why one can awake fresh from a night's sleep and be in a 'bad mood'. Similarly, why can one awake the very next day feeling fit to conquer universes? Changes in mood during any given day are likely due to varying fortunes during the day, but what happens during a night's sleep to change a good mood on retiring to a bloody mood on awakening? Fickle is what it is, and bloody annoying,too!

And while on the subject of fickle, we seem to have acquired a cat. As a family we've had cats since the beginning of time, but on the death of our darling Portia (at 17) four years ago we decided not to have another, which would likely outlive us. Lots of our neighbours have cats, and we've got to know them. Also, and known to Portia, there was a semi-feral ginger job, Archie. He was peripatetic but seemed not to belong; always hungry, spiteful and aggressive.

                   Archie. Notourcat. Mid scratch

In November 2016 there were some very cold nights. We took pity and made a makeshift bed consisting of a cardboard box and blankets, in our garage. Then one exceptionally cold night we allowed him in the house. Need I say more? For the last year he has slept on the bed, and anywhere else of his choosing, come in at night, taken to the occasional drink of milk, and chased string across the floor. We're now able to stroke him, check for parasites, and touch him while he sleeps. When did our compassion become his right? Interestingly his eating habits have modified. He no longer eats everything on the plate, nor does he crave food everytime he comes in.

But, beware! When his ears go back, or he swiftly moves his head towards, he's going to bite. His paws are definitely a no-go zone. One's own feet are not safe either, at any time, as he's quite likely to attack ankles

We know his owner, who acquired a dog which caused Archie to leave home and she's relaxed about him living here. She will also allow us to adopt (he seems already to have done his bit) if we move as she says that now he never goes home she at least knows he's being cared for. Soon I'm going to have to stop referring to him on Twitter as #Notourcat.

Fickle is what he is, definitely!