Gone are the days of my leaping heart at the sound of my text alert letting me know that the object of my desires was close at hand.
These days the text pings and I flash red, not with passion, but blind fury because it’s yet another unsolicited text. I have two texters who like to try it on. One is a health spa and gym. Apparently, they haven’t seen my car in the car park and are missing me. I have resisted the temptation to respond. I fear I may not come out of it with dignity.
The other unsolicited texter is Gov-UK. The libertarian in me swings into virtual action while I compose a reply I shall never send. Who gave them my number?
The first time they texted was to tell me that I could become extremely ill, but not to worry the NHS would look after me over the phone or on line. No mention that I might expect to be treated with care. I like to think of this as the culling phase of Covid 19. “You are going to die” was the nub of the message.
The second time they wrote to me was to tell me that I should not leave the house without the permission of a health professional. As an afterthought they texted me to suggest I try to spend time with a window open.
The next text Gov-Uk sent was to suggest I call a friend or family member once a day. In the good ideas of good ideas, what kind of an idea is that? I’m not gullible and never adhere to conspiracy theories. I know the virus travels down phone lines. I wouldn’t want to give it to my friends and family. Not all of them anyway. Never let it be said that I have ever spent too much time on the phone!
In another helpful hint Gov-Uk have advised me to eat vegetables; fresh, frozen or tinned. Now why didn’t I think of that?
Things must be getting desperate. I had another text from Gov-Uk who say they know being at home can be frustrating. Never fear. They have the antidote to tedium. They suggest I take up Suduko. I am still digesting this, although it’s sitting heavily on the tinned tomatoes.
Perhaps Boris heard my complaint. “Oh Papa Boris. I’m bored. What can I do?” I wined.
“Why not teach yourself Suduko oh stupid one with no imagination who loves nothing more than to be told what to do.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said my friend The Artist. “How are you going to see to kick the ball?”
“That’s Subbuteo you Idiot.’
The Flatmate can do a Rubik Cube in seconds. I’ve been thinking about it since 1976 and still can’t work it out, so no hope of solving a Suduko puzzle. In my quest for knowledge for its own sake I have discovered that a man called Adam Libusa wrote his degree thesis on Suduko for blind people. There are accessible versions of Suduko everywhere: from on line to peg boards, from large print to braille.
The GP has just phoned to say it’s all been a terrible mistake. I can leave home and exercise autonomy over my own windows. Gov-Uk got their data in a muddle. Luckily for me it was something as benign as a recommendation to eat tinned veg and take up Suduko.
Gov-Uk have just sent me another text. I haven’t text “STOP” to get them to shut up, because I am curious about what they are going to tell me next.
People live and die by flawed data. No one should wash their hands of that.