My experience with technology has always been fraught. But my performance in this war reached its nadir during a recent trip to Australia, where my daughter recently moved with her husband and two-year-old daughter.
They love the country, and why not? The landscapes are beautiful, the cities elegant, and the citizens cheerful. And not only do they drive on the right (i.e. left) side of the road, they do so politely, actually using the indicator before changing lanes and slowing down – not accelerating – when the driver in front uses theirs.
But all was not hunky dory. Like a lone mosquito that announces itself the moment you’ve turned off the light to sleep, a single issue was marring an otherwise good life.
“We really miss the hand shower in the toilet,” my daughter said, soon after they’d settled in. Australians may have gone paperless in the office but not, it turns out, in the rest room.
I was in India when she told us this and decided to help her with technology. Unleashing my IT skills, I asked ChatGPT for a solution.
“Would you like a bidet sprayer?” it asked me hopefully.
“Yes!” I said.
“Before I recommend a specific product,” it continued, “could you send me a photograph of her toilet? Please pay particular attention to the seat, the sink, and the floor around it.”
A ‘specific product’ best suited to the Australian loo sounded technologically logical, so I got the necessary pictures from my daughter and re-entered my discussion with ChatGPT.
“This is good,” it complimented me. “Now please give me her exact street address, with the postal code.”
I obliged but with some puzzlement. Perhaps it was for customs clearance?
“One last thing,” said ChatGPT. “Could you describe her neighbourhood and family in detail please – ages, occupations and food allergies?”
I may not be a titan of technology, but even I felt it was time to draw the line. I told it to use the information I’d provided, scant it may have been, and recommend a product I could buy in India.
“You could go for a portable, rechargeable electric bidet sprayer (also called a portable electric bidet or motorised handheld bidet),” it said and directed me to amazon.in.
I promptly bought it (and discovered it was positioned for ‘international travel’, presumably to any country, confirming my suspicion that ChatGPT had gone overboard with its requests for information) and carried it when my wife and I visited the daughter in Australia.
It was a sensation. My daughter used it first thing in the morning of day one and pronounced it a winner. My son-in-law grinned with pleasure after he tried it. Even the baby seemed to enjoy the new ‘bidet cleaning’ – and of course pressing the button herself to create extra floor-mopping work for the adults.
On day three, the machine started all right but wouldn’t stop. After sucking all the water in the receptacle, it continued to suck air… noisily. And of course this took place when I was using it.
“Turn it off!” screamed the family.
“Cannot already,” I said, walking out of the toilet with the thingummy chugging away in my hand.
Interpreting “cannot” as her dad’s inability to operate the on-off switch, my daughter took the device from me and, a few minutes later, announced, “It cannot be turned off. Appa has ruined it.” She tried to remove the batteries.
“You cannot remove batteries from a device that has none,” her husband sagely informed her. “It’s a well-known concept.”
We realised the stupid machine would stop humming only when its charge was exhausted, and going by the volume, annoyingly audible in every room of the house, that would take hours.
I got a brainwave. I walked to the washing machine in the yard, ensconced the bidet within the laundry and shut the lid, and walked back to the living room. No sound.
“I’ve hidden it,” I told the family but neglected to say where.
The next day, my daughter ran the laundry. Fifteen minutes into the wash cycle, a horrible sound began emanating from the machine, and it stopped. She shut it off and opened it. The bidet had broken inside, and its pieces had jammed the washing machine.
She gave me a look in which filial affection was markedly absent. I deduced that she did not think my solution was a brainwave. Once more, technology had trounced Paddy.
-- End –
Paddy Rangappa (https://www.linkedin.com/in/paddyrangappa/), an ex-CEO, now teaches humour for leaders; happiness at work; and marketing through consumer insights
© Paddy Rangappa
