My Toothbrush Doesn't Talk to Me

All day, at work, I tinker with things to make them ever more fancy. Every item in your home can be switched on or off with a clap, or a snap of your fingers, or else a tap of a button. Everything is synced to your phone, computer, laptop, T.V., tablet, and smartwatch.

Your household appliances, from your washer-dryer to your coffee-maker, can be programmed and controlled from 200 miles away. Or more.

Let's say you're at work, and you just got a message (on one of a dozen messaging platforms) that your in-laws are coming to dinner. From your desk, you can check your fridge and see what you've got. Barb, (the Frij) can also add items to your weekly grocery list for you when she detects you're running low.

You can instruct Toby and Wilfred, (the upstairs and downstairs vaccuum cleaners, respectively,) to do their job before you get home.

On holiday, and can't remember if you locked the garage? No problem! Every lock and alarm is digital and can be checked and activated remotely. Worried the freezer might defrost while your away? Relax! If that happens, it sends you an alert.

Your cat doesn't speak to you, because her food is dispensed from a machine as she approaches it. In fact, it learns her routines and warms her portion shortly before a meal is required. It does this because that's how she prefers it. It knows this because it notes now well she eats and cross-checks this against flavour, temperature, brand, consistency, and whether it's "jelly" or "gravy".

A week ago, it emailed you to let you know she was above her optimal weight, that it would be reducing her portion sizes accordingly, and it has booked a check up at the vets.

The dehumidifier in the bathroom turns itself on when the humidity gets too high. Every window and blind is on a timer. Little listening devices blink demurely in every room. Even your radio knows your listening habits, and your shower has learned how hot you like it.

Even your Heart is innovative, digital, and practically remote controlled.

Me? I work for a company that makes this stuff. Builds it, codes it, even fixes it sometimes (but we prefer you to buy new). We design eminently user friendly interfaces, and roll out patches. I earn a tidy wage, and I could afford to buy most of these gizmos. I could beta-test anything if I just asked for it. They'd pay me extra for my trouble, and let me keep whatever-it-was.

But... I don't ask. None of us do.

When my work for the day is done, I walk out to my car, and open it the way my great grandpop would have done. With a key. And a satisfying mechanical click. It doesn't chirp and open when the key gets close enough. If I want it unlocked, I have to unlock it.

I drive home. I decide when to accelerate, and when to brake. I mutter some curse words as I pull out into traffic, because the seat belt always tightens at the start of the journey, and I don't know how to switch off that feature. It aggravates the crap out of me. Gritting my teeth, I swear again when I realise I haven't turned off Lane Assist. I fix that, jabbing crossly at the little screen and hissing "fuck off" several times.

So, as I say, I drive home. I drive. Using the three pedals and shifting gears smooth as you like. I won't be seen dead in an automatic, never mind one of those self-driving monstrosities. Once outside my home, I park with perfect competence, lock my car (click) and crunch up the driveway.

On the doorstep, I fish out my housekeys. Now, you probably have a keypad or retina Scanner, like my neighbours. Idiots. (No offence.)

Not me! I fish out my keys like I said, and unlock my front door. Another satisfying click.

No lights flicker. No beeps greet me. No mechanical voice welcomes me home. It's quiet. And dark. I can smell the unpleasant and slightly spicy odour that tells me Gizmo has used the dirtbox. That's not automatic either.

I press the switch, appreciating the good solid plastic under my fingers. Then I toe off my shoes, hang up my things and pad down the hallway in my socks. Gizmo runs to greet me. He's hungry.

In the kitchen, I deal with the dirtbox, and spritz some of the air freshener from under the sink. I open a tin of cat food, and scoop some into Gizmo's bowl.

When I swing the fridge door open, it doesn't say a word. It just groans, and blinks, as if it's an old man and I just woke him from a nap. I glance from shelf to shelf, wondering what to make for dinner.

Then I swap the half tin of Whiskas for a cold Peroni and amble to the living room. There's a whole wall dedicated to blue ray and DVDs. One bit of it is just VHS tapes. I still have an old machine to play them on as well. Gary laughs at me, because he loves new tech. He does an Indiana Jones impression (it belongs in a museum!!) every time he sees it. It never gets old. We love films.

I pick out an old favourite, a Tarantino one, and then have to look for the TV remote, because the telly isn't voice activated.

Something buzzes in my pocket. I pull out my Nokia 3310. Ah, look, a text from Gary. "Pub?" he says. I type back a response. My thumbs have to really work for it.

I plug in my trusty Nokia for the first time in three days. You can't even buy chargers for these beauties anymore. It's fine though. If this one breaks, I have a whole drawer full of them.

I like this life. I like the boring, ordinary, organic heart I was born with. My toothbrush doesn't talk to me, my curtains don't need to be reprogrammed for Daylight Savings, and if l want a light on, I have to get up off my arse and press a button.

My favourite gadget is a mallet. A really bloody big one. And I'm not afraid to use it. If, for example, my rice cooker makes an unsolicited Bleep, or if my ancient pocket calculator tries to guess what sum I'm going to do next.

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Thank you for reading!

I have alluded to things in other stories here, namely, the futuristic fridge, and the mechanical Heart: