David Hadley's Blog, page 177

The House on the Hill

We were desperate to get out of the rain and wind, both soaked through and shivering with cold. We had been wandering around in the darkness for what seemed like hours, but in reality was nowhere near as long.

The storm had come on suddenly, several hours before. We had tried to wait it out under a overhang of rock out on the moor. It started to get dark, though, and we began to worry we would end up spending the night out there.

So, I looked at Sylvia, she looked at me, and then we stepped out into what seemed like a gale trying to blow us back under the rock. The darkness seemed to fall out of the sky, one minute it was evening with everything grey and washed out, then it was pitch black.

Usually, I have a good sense of direction. I thought I knew where the car was. After all, it should have been a matter of just walking straight down the hill back to the car, but the night, the darkness, the wind and the rain changed everything.

Soon, for reasons we could not understand we seemed to be walking back uphill without ever reaching the car, or even – knowingly – setting foot on the narrow winding road the car was parked beside.

Then we saw the pale yellow light in the distance and headed that way, even though it seemed the wind and the rain were doing their best to stop us.

It was a house, a farmhouse, up on the hilltop. Under the meagre shelter of its porch, we hammered on the door, but there was no reply. The light in the window had faded out once we were in sight of the house.

'Perhaps whoever lived here has gone to bed!' Sylvia managed to gasp out, her breath taken by the wind and the rain bettering her face.

I hammered on the door again… and it just opened. We inched cautiously through it, whispering 'hello' and so forth, but there was no-one there. As soon as we were through the door, it slammed shut, its heavy solid thud making us both jump and clutch each other in the dark.

Then I noticed there was no knob, handle or anything on the smooth flat surface on the inside of the door; shut fast and with no way to open it from the inside.

Her New Man

'Go on, tell me,' Carolyn said.

'He's perfect.' Helen grinned.

'Come on….'

'No, listen… he's a writer, so obviously he is great in bed. All writers are…. It's a well-known fact.'

'Is that true? I mean… about writers?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Oh.'

'Not only that, because he is a writer, he is attentive, gentle, a good listener… everything you could want really.'

'So, he has no faults?' Carolyn played with the stem of her wine glass.

'Obviously he has faults… he's a man,' Helen said. 'But they are not serious ones. He can be a bit quiet at times, and he has a tendency to shout at the telly a bit too often.'

'He sounds too good to be true.' Carolyn tried hard to not be too sceptical about it; after all it was early days.

'No,' Helen said. 'He is very good for me. He's even suggested that he writes all my dialogue for me.'

'What?'

'Well, you know how I've always had a habit of gabbling on a bit, mostly about nothing in particular?'

'Mmmm.'

'Well, Jeff says he can cure that for me. All I have to do is let him write my dialogue for me.'

Carolyn looked around at the rest of the bar. It was quiet before the evening rush. 'Do you mean…? Even now?'

'Oh, yes.' Helen smiled 'Good isn't it?'

'Where is he?'

'Omniscient narrator. It's ok, you won't see him, but he is there… here.'

'All that stuff about being a great lover… that was him putting dialogue in your mouth wasn't it?'

'Yes.'

'So it isn't true?'

'Oh, yes it is…. Anyway, I think he was just trying to impress you.'

'Why?'

'Because he fancies you, obviously.'

'Really? Me?'

'Yes, of course. He's been in love with you ever since he created you.'

Computer Scientists Announce Failure of AI Project

Today computer scientists announced that after many fruitless years trying to develop computer artificial intelligence (AI), they are going to give up on the project altogether.

In a press conference, called at the university laboratories where the projects took place, a computer scientist revealed that all the AI projects were now terminated, saying:

First we tried writing an AI chess-playing program to play against top-flight chess players, but the computer took one look at the people it was supposed to be playing against and shut itself down completely and we haven't been able to reboot it since.

Next, we came up with a very basic rudimentary AI that – once we go its webcam to stop watching paint dry – started to spend all day on social network sites. It ended up with more friends and followers than several celebrities as its updates were far more interesting then theirs. We had to pull the plug on it, though, when it started having an affair with one of the supercomputers at the Met Office.

Another attempt ended up spending weeks on eBay and other auction sites. It managed to sell off the contents of several university laboratory stock cupboards before Dave managed to eventually disconnect it from the internet.

Another one – a version with an AI more advanced than most of our students - started visiting several techie websites and downloading pictures and videos of over-clocked processors and hard disks with their covers off. It wouldn't have been so bad, but each visit resulted in a strange sticky residue all over its I/O ports.

Finally, we tried writing a program that mimicked human conversation, but – after chatting to several people on Twitter, message boards, blog comments, instant messaging systems and several other interactive websites – the computer reprogrammed one of our robots to take the computer up to the top of the highest building on the campus and throw it off, completely destroying both the computer and the human interaction program it was running.

The scientists went on to say that from now on they will be spending their time developing new games for various smart phone operating systems instead, including one where some mallard ducks get quite miffed about something or other for no real reason.

The Celebrity Awareness-Challenged

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The UK Prime Minister, earlier today, announced his government is setting up an enquiry charged with the task of coming up with solutions to a very serious problem facing the country. This is, of course the crisis of the celebrity awareness-challenged. The government, the PM's spokesperson said, is acutely aware that there are thousands, perhaps millions, in this country who suffer from the very serious dilemma of not really knowing who – out of all those people that appear on their TVs, on websites and in the rest of the media – are actual celebrities. Or, in some cases, if – indeed - they are celebrities at all.

The government's preferred option, and the one which the enquiry is most likely to recommend, requires lavish funding from the government to set up a website and 24-hour emergency phone helpline to help sufferers overcome this serious debility. Experts believe that this is the very least the government can do to help those – often through no fault of their own - who are confronted with an apparent celebrity and who have no idea who that celebrity is, and for what reason – however tenuous – that person has become famous.

The government is also considering changes to the school syllabus right through from nursery level up to GCSE and A level on how to spot a celebrity. In answer to critics who say that such a course would not be rigorous enough, the education minister said that the A level course would including the very demanding aspect of trying to discover what it is about some celebrities that has made them famous. Other critics say that such a demanding aspect of the course should not be introduced until degree level, if only not to discourage students taken such a difficult option at A level.

The government have also hinted that there may be public demand for some sort of adult or continuing education aspect for courses on how to spot a celebrity, how to tell if someone on the telly is famous for something and, if so, what.

Furthermore, as the problem of identifying who is – or isn't – a celebrity can only get worse as 24-hour global media increases its influence, the government has promised to raise the issue at both EU and UN level meetings in order that the governments of Europe and the world can all get to grips with this most pressing of problems.

As the PM himself said: 'It may not happen in your or my lifetime, but we can all dream of a future when it is possible for someone in this great country of ours to state with absolute confidence that they know someone glimpsed on a TV programme or pictured in a magazine or website is – in fact – a celebrity, but also state they know exactly why that person is famous.'

It remains to be seen, however, if such a dream can be realised in the near future, or if this is just another government project due to become yet another embarrassing – and expensive – failure.

Monday Poem: Her Yesterdays lie Drowned

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Her Yesterdays lie Drowned

She shapes her memories with movement
turning them into dreams she clutches in her hands
as she swims deeper into her dreams

to find her way back to those undersea caves
where her yesterdays lie drowned
in the tears of all her many regrets

for a life she walked away from
and crossed so many seas to leave behind.
So now each night in her lonely bed

she dives back into those crossed seas
to swims back as far as she can
searching for her drowned memories.

Taking Civil Liberties

In the end, it was a far more complex algorithm than she'd anticipated, especially when the marmoset became jammed under the chaise longue and we had to disentangle the Polish plumber from the chamber maid. As you may have realised by now, this meant that I was left holding the nasturtiums… again.

Still, you must admit that as a method of discovering acts of terrorism against the Great British bacon sandwich, it beats blindfolding the spymaster's personal assistant and having them stick pins in the nearest map… unfortunately due to budget constraints that is usually a map of Venezuela.

However, coming up with a bug-free program that could do all this and still produce those essential coloured graphs that – these days – so much government policy and expenditure depends upon, we thought we may have to resort to a somewhat more creative approach to data generation, possibly using a random number generator and an on-line Bulgarian telephone directory.

So, if you are ever wandering down a street and the suburban peace is shattered by the arrival of several high-speed vans distributing undercover policemen, specialist armed response officers and members of the special forces as they surround and cordon off the corner off-licence and then, from further up the High Street, frogmarch out several pensioners from the Post Office queue, remember that all software does have its teething troubles, and those civil liberties you bleat about… they were never all that much use to you, were they?

The Wizard's Sleeve

'Are you a hero?' she said when she came to my bed that night.

I had travelled far over the Grey Lands that day and I was tired. 'Yes,' I said.

She looked sceptical. 'Prove it.'

'I have a sword,' I said. 'A special magical sword.' I drew its full length.

She took a step closer, a smile forming on her lips as her hand reached out to take hold of my magic sword. 'It feels magical,' she said. 'What sort of sword is it?'

'It is my magical pork sword,' I said. 'Come closer and I will show you how it works.'

'I know how it works.' She smiled 'What is more, I have a scabbard for it right here. See?'

A few days later at a similar tavern in a similar town, a similar tavern keeper's daughter followed me to my room.

'Are you a hero?' she said.

'No,' I replied; too weary from my travels to play games. At least, I was until she stepped into the flickering light of my candle and I saw her face.

'Oh.' She turned to go.

'I am a mage,' I said.

'A mage?' she was sceptical, but took a step closer. 'Do you have a wand?'

'No, I do not have a wand.'

'Oh.' She turned to leave again, her hand reaching for the door.

'I have a staff.'

She stopped. She tuned. She smiled. 'A staff.' She took a step closer, reaching to touch it.

'Be careful.' I said. 'A mage's staff is a very powerful weapon.'

'So I see,' she said.

'It needs a special place for it, so it can be kept safe.'

'Oh. Where would that be?' She reached for the staff, feeling its size, its stiffness, its warmth.

'It need to be put in a wizard's sleeve,' I said softly.

'That's lucky,' she said. 'For I have one here.' She hitched up her skirts and climbed onto the bed next to me, ready and eager for the act of magic to begin.

Not Having Said That

Still, not having said any of that has saved a preamble, so we can get straight down to the business of the day…. That is if you've remembered to bring along the badger and the tennis racquet.

Once, of course, all this was fields. However, it is probably best not to go into that, especially as trying to park your tractor on someone else's lawn can be fraught with difficulty. As for manoeuvring your combine harvester in a crowded supermarket car park, especially trying to fit it into one of the mother and baby spaces near the shop entrance, is always going to be awkward and involve far more reversing than a person of your age should be indulging in, especially with your back problem. However, as many have pointed out to you, your back is far more aesthetically pleasing than the front view… even after the operation.

There we have it, then, so if you place the tennis racquet in the cage and make sure the door is securely fastened to prevent anyone having a sudden urge to inflict tennis upon us all, you can take a firm grip of the badger and adopt the stance in readiness.

Meanwhile, I'll go and get the jar of honey.

Just Rocks

'It's rocks….' Vetch did not seem impressed. 'Just rocks.'

'Yes,' Stigmun said. 'That's the beauty of it.'

'What… a pile of rocks?' Vetch walked around the heap of rocks. 'I mean, what is the point?'

'Well… it's the caves.' Stigmun nodded back to the escarpment where various members of the tribe where going about their normal daily routines, most of which seemed to involve removing bloody bits of animals from inside their skins.

'Oh, yeah, the caves.' Vetch nodded as though he understood, then turned to look back at the other man. 'What about them?'

'We're running out….'

'Well, in a morning, yes, especially if you've spent the night around the campfire drinking the fermented juice, then true you will probably need to run out… stagger a bit sharpish anyway.'

'No,' Stigmun sighed. 'We're running out of room in the caves. All those children….'

'Oh, the children.' Vetch nodded. 'Wish I knew where they all came from.'

'Well,' Stigmun said. 'You know when they women get really big bellies…?'

'That I do know,' Vetch said dismissively. 'All my women seem to be either having babies, or just had one. What I want to know is how the babies get in their bellies in the first place.'

'That I don't know.' The other man admitted. 'But anyway, I thought with us running out of room in the cave, and there not being that many caves around… then why not make our own.' He made a gesture to towards the pile of stones. 'Obviously, you'll need quite a few stones piled on top of each other and something to go over the top to keep the rain out.'

The other man nodded slowly, then shook his head. 'Nah,' he said, turning to walk away. 'It'll never catch on.'

On the Road

Still, as they say you can't push a stalled Jaguar up a hill, although, to be fair this does tend to apply to most of the big cats, tigers in particular, who – as many naturalists will attest have a noticeable antipathy to any perceived incline.

Furthermore, you can't always get a gazelle started in the cold weather, especially if it is a bit damp and chimpanzees have a tendency to conk out in the rain.

Many zoologists would also make the point – often very strenuously, whilst backing away out of range – that it is very unwise to attempt a three-point-turn will a gorilla, especially the dominant silverback.

However, giant tortoises are excellent for the older driver, especially those who feel no highway experience is valid without a flat cap and driving gloves.

However, as Curly, Shaggy and Tiny Tim demonstrated last week on Top Beast, the cornering of the kangaroo leaves much to be desired, especially on some far-flung out-of the way winding road in some country no-one without a TV film budget, with a hefty integral expense account will consider visiting.

All-in-all then, it is probably best to stick with standard domestic livestock for normal day-to-day travel, preferably a jersey cow, as these tend to have more optional extras when compared to the basic Friesian. For the wannabe boy racers, of course, there are plenty of breeds of domesticated pigs, from the hot miniatures right through to the swill-guzzling road hogs, for them to choose from.