Yesterday, I learned that a friend had died – last January – and I never knew. How could he be termed a friend, then? He just was. Not somebody we saw, socially, but rather through his ventures. In a former life, he was a butcher in Stockbridge and, living in St Bernard’s Crescent, aged about twenty-one/twenty-two, we began the tradition of the Saturday steak. Strange, looking back, considering I haven’t eaten meat for twenty-seven years … Anyway, that was how we met Struthie; larger-than-life Struthie, built like a tank with his shoulder-length blond hair and a plethora of patter! I would have a fillet steak while Craig would leave with the side of a cow. ‘The animal’, Struthie called him … Meanwhile, he loved nothing more than to tease me – and I loved it right back! He became one of the highlights of our Saturdays, way back then.
Fast forward forever, and he morphed into Waterless, a car valeting service. Perfect as, married with children, now, and living in suburbia, we were the proud owners of a Clumber Spaniel: big, white, huge hairy paws, big droopy, slobbery jowls and … just everywhere! Enter Struthie, once more, and he was to remain a fixture of our lives/my life from then on. There at the beginning, he was there at the end. I could be having the worst day, driving along, and I’d hear a horn blaring, lights flashing as Struthie flew by in his van. If I hadn’t noticed him, my mobile would go: ‘You ignoring me? You never phone, you never write …!’ He always cheered me up; made me smile. Thing is, behind the laughs, I knew that he was someone I could always phone if I was in trouble. He was that kind of friend. Just always there.
Moving away from Edinburgh, six years ago, I rarely saw him but, out of the blue, Waterless, would flash up on my phone or I would give him a call for a free doze of sarcasm and the teasing I missed: ‘Have you not finished that book, yet?! Don’t give me that – too busy – what have you been doing? Lounging around doing nothing, as usual. Book? What book?’ I always promised him a signed copy. He would have liked that. Would have shut him up! Sometimes, though, too late comes too soon. The day before yesterday, I was thinking about him and that I hadn’t been in touch for a long time. I’ll give him a ring. Then, came the message from another friend saying she presumed I knew that Struthtie had died? No! That can’t be. Struthie is always there; at the end of a phone. Might not see him for a while but he’s always there … until he isn’t. God speed, my dear friend. Thanks for all the fun. Promise I’ll finish that book, too. You’ll see.
Friends. The real ones are those one doesn’t see all the time; can go for months, even years, with no contact and, yet, nothing changes. The bond remains. For that’s what it is, a bond. Shared history, really. That’s what counts. Yesterday’s message was a reminder, though, that life is fragile and nothing is forever. Pick up that phone! I wish, now, that I had.
We live in a scary, mad world; one which has let the genie out of the bottle, never to go back. Technology. Artificial intelligence, more precisely. The power to imitate; to deceive. As if ChatGPT wasn’t dangerous enough, the latest is the AI friend. Seriously? What hope is there? Soon, all human connection will be gone and, confined to our cells like battery hens, or caged animals in a zoo – such selfish cruelty, we inflict – we will rot in a sea of screens and radiation, our every move programmed and controlled as, starved of fresh air and nature, we become nothing more than the robots we – so predictably – created. Full circle. Slain by our own hand. Oh, the irony!
Is this, actually, a horror movie? Are we all bit-players in our own film? Nothing would surprise me. Most, among us, are freely compliant as they invite smart meters into their homes, instruct Alexa of their every whim and replace their radios with Smart Speakers. Why? To keep up with the Jones’, as we used to say; follow the crowd. Once upon a time, we had three channels on the television and, actually, had to get up off our seat to switch to another or adjust the volume. God forbid, we had to move! Not any more. If you so wish, there is no need to leave your home, let your seat! More Ozempic over here, please!
As I write, my landline has been cut off. Bombarded by BT on every platform, I was told that the phone was going digital and I would be supplied with a new router into which I would have to plug it. Excellent. Firstly, like most, I suppose, I only have a landline for emergency, added to the fact that mobile reception is not great where I live. Going digital negates that reasoning. If the power goes down, so does the internet and the landline. Deal with it! Secondly – and more importantly – I do not appreciate the lack of choice, nor the enforcement. Alarm bells, particularly for a cynic like me. Look, I know we are all monitored courtesy of our mobile devices but that’s where it stops. I would never entertain a Smart Meter in my home and, most definitely not, an Alexa. I do not trust the powers that be and, aside from the fact that I am losing the prime benefit of a landline, I have no intention of accepting, potentially, further means for monitoring. The fact that I have no idea how to plug in the new router has nothing to do with it – just saying!
Irony is something which never escapes me and, as everything digital is forced upon us, perhaps one should ponder on the recent Marks & Spencer cyber attack. One ‘hiccup’ and kaput; whole system down, resulting in widespread havoc. In fact, scarily, ‘Jo Public’ – unwittingly programmed – positively malfunctioned when told that contactless payment was not available. No phones, no watches (still beyond me), apparently the abuse directed at the check-out assistants was off the scale; totally disproportionate. I repeat, programmed. Anyway, amidst the chaos, I happened to hear on the news that Greencore, Marks & Spencer‘s sandwich supplier, had resorted to pen and paper – and it was working really well! Who would have thought? The human being functioning as intended; self-sufficient and not a chip in sight! It would be laughable if it weren’t so sad – as in, pathetic. For, of course, money is God and, no matter the irony – not sure anyone even recognises it anymore – the road to self-destruction is firmly paved. This is a horror film, isn’t it? One thing’s for sure, the ending’s not going to be good. Remind me, what happened to Nicole Kidman’s character in The Stepford Wives? The one who didn’t comply but, rather, observed and worked it out, instead? Thought as much.
‘They say Indians used to press their ears to the earth to hear what was coming next but, if you were to lie down and listen to this ground, you’d get run over.’
Alexandra Fuller, The Legend of Colton H. Bryant.
What she says … Did I mention, she is my favourite author?
This is Trish, signing off.
