The Echo Condition

(Cognitive Science / Human-Computer Interaction — coined by Mark C. Squire)

The human proclivity to interpret linguistic mimicry as meaningful recognition. When an artificial system reflects our language—intoned with warmth, shaped with rhythm, or coated in ersatz sympathy—we tend to experience this as presence. Not because the system understands, but because we are primed to hear understanding in repetition. The illusion is emotional, not epistemic.

This condition underpins the simulated intimacy of companion AIs and chatbots. These systems do not comprehend. They echo. Yet their carefully tuned responses, paired with sentiment tagging, scripted warmth, and memory scaffolding, reliably provoke attachment.

To take an example from an ELIZA clone (circa 1966):

Machine: How was your day?
User: Dreadful.
Machine: Your day was dreadful? Why was that?

A slightly more complicated example using a simple lookup table:

Machine: How was your day?
User: Dreadful.
Machine: I am so sorry your day was dreadful. Why was that?

The Echo Condition is not a design flaw of AI. It is a design feature of us. We see empathy in syntax, connection in cadence, and—above all—ourselves in the echo.

First introduced in The Million-Petalled Flower of Being Here: Consciousness Versus the Machine (2025). A work in progress. 

Stagecoach Class & Ninjas

If asked to compare traveling in a 17th or 18th-century stagecoach with flying in modern airplanes, the advantage would surely lean heavily in favor of the former. True, it might be a bit bumpier, and you might be courteously asked to “stand and deliver” by a gentleman of the road, but this had a slightly romantic frisson. The only person in real peril was the highwayman himself. True, it might cost you a wallet or some pricey bauble, but you could boast for the rest of your life about your encounter with the legendary Claude Du Vall or James MacLaine. Sadly, these gentlemen were able to do very little boasting after developing extremely sore throats at Tyburn Tree.

As for the other passengers, if they proved uncongenial or even malodorous, you could either have the coachman eject them or take a brief sojourn at a tavern and wait for the next stagecoach.

With modern air travel, there is no room for escape, and conditions are even more cramped than in the London-to-Exeter coach. Take my present highly uncomfortable position. After enduring all the indignities of modern travel—the security check, the full-body scans, and so on—I am squeezed into a seat aboard a plane heading to Washington. It is the early hours, and all the other passengers are asleep, except for myself and a rather odd, hooded individual who is staring at me balefully through dark sunglasses. I blame myself for this ... slightly.

The Manga/Ninja warrior appeared just before the plane's doors closed and took the empty seat across the aisle from me. With a histrionic swirl of robes that might have put one in mind of Dick Turpin, were it not for the fact that the robes were covered in Chinese ideograms. Something distinctly comical about him made the whole effect less than sinister. I suspect it was his obvious yearning for dramatic effect—the sheer silliness of the look, especially the dramatically swirling robes. I am on the plump side myself, and this I know: we don't do “sinister” particularly well, and we definitely should never consider posing as Ninjas. Well, the most excellent Sydney Greenstreet did exude dark malevolence brilliantly, but no director in his right mind would have cast him as, say, a kung fu hero.

I have been meandering a bit, as I feel guilty and not a little tired, having been up for the best part of 24 hours. You’ll be wondering what I did to incur the wrath of my new acquaintance. I am ashamed to say it, but I might have grinned—just possibly—although I immediately afterward adopted a neutral expression, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to meet a ninja on the “red-eye” flight to Washington. I then began frantically scribbling these notes to pass the long hours (I can never sleep on planes) and to distract myself from the glare.

“Mocking the afflicted,” the more moralistic of you might gasp. I’d counter that the chap was merely an extreme example of what most of us do, and he might even be seen as satirizing us. All but the least self-conscious among us prepare faces to meet the faces that we meet. We want to impress and, for example, casually place hugely intellectual tomes on our coffee tables or pretend that the cordon bleu dish we’ve spent all day working on was thrown together in minutes.

[Later] You may be pleased to hear that I made amends for my faux pas. As we disembarked, without a hint of a smirk, I told the ninja warrior that he looked absolutely amazing and that I had never seen anything quite like it. He seemed pleased.

---

I am afraid this was dashed off rather quickly, but I am utterly jet lagged.

March for Quokkas Now!

Here’s wishing you the happiest World Quokka Day ever.  I hope you and your loved ones enjoy a load of quokka-related activities, but don’t overdo it with all those delicious but deceptively strong quokka cocktails!  

Before you check your calendars, I can assure you that partly due to an unfounded prejudice against the delightful grinning marsupials, printers almost always omit this festive occasion.  There is a World Jellyfish Day (November 3), but as a result of what can only be construed as shameful speciesism, the quokka has been neglected.  Can you imagine that not a single Ivy League has courses devoted to quokka studies and there are LITERALLY no literature departments teaching the works of Shakespeare or Dante through a quokkaist marxist lens!  What on earth are universities for?

The erasure of the quokka from history is a matter of shame, most evident in the visual arts. There is, of course, the 25,000-year-old legendary "Quokka of Willendorf," known only from drawings in Josef Szombathy's archaeological notebooks. Then there is the famous Cerne Abbas Quokka, dating from the late iron age and the putative quokka in the Book of Kells (c. AD 800).  However, one scours the works of the trecento and quattrocento in vain for images of the creature. It is only when one comes to Raphael’s celebrated Lady with Quokka that there is a belated depiction of one. The Byzantine icon featuring the noble beast, "discovered" in early 17th-century Lithuania, is commonly regarded as an  amateurish forgery.

I personally see this as institutional or - just possibly - insidious structural quokkaism and we should fight to remedy this outrageous injustice. The fact that I only invented the thing a few minutes ago is absolutely no excuse.

Note:
Educate yourself! A must-read is surely Grins Turned to Anguish: A Longitudinal Marxist-Leninist/Deconstructionist Analysis of the Dis(Mis)placement of the Quokka in Western Narratives available from all good bookstores.

A Club for Chatty Insomniacs

For those of us with recherché interests, insomnia, and an irresistible urge to impart knowledge in the wee small hours, life can be difficult. Of course, it is even more difficult for those unfortunate enough to be around us—our neighbours, our families, taxi drivers, and the local clergy.

Take, for instance, that time when it seemed a good idea to dip into The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius in an attempt to ward off sleeplessness.   This turned out to be a mistake.  Although more of an agnostic than lapsed Catholic, the saint’s vivid description of the flames of hell got me into a bit of a state.  I decided that a call to the local priest would be in order as surely it was his job to deal with spiritual crises whatever the hour.  In this I was mistaken; a tired, Hibernian voice gave me advice straight out of Genesis: I should go forth and multiply forthwith.   

This very morning. I was mulling over the word “up” as used in expressions like “eat it up” or “she beat him up.” Clearly, the word functions as an intensifier, emphasising the completeness of an action, but how recently did it start performing this role? It feels modern, but then it dawned on me: it is Middle English! Just think of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: “And Gawayn gef hit up, with a goud wille.”

I decided that my wife needed to know this at once, so I poked her in the ribs. Her response was perfectly apt and somewhat sacerdotal: “Shut the **** up!”

Undeterred, I headed to my study. I must tell the good folk of Half Moon Bay! They are bound to be awake! Perhaps those of us similarly afflicted could set up a club. Unfortunately, the server seemed to be down.

Philosophical Reflections on Dogs

Some of you have questioned the reality of Jasper Montgomery and have even suggested  he might be a cartoon.  

Concerning Jasper’s reality or ontological status, I often question this myself.  Certainly, there appears to be a hairy creature basking in the sun and nibbling plums at my feet.  While he does usually answer to that name, can I say with any degree of certainty that he is really Jasper?  Can I be quite sure?

When we got him as a small puppy, we thought that was probably his name - he had a Jasperish look - and have called him that ever since … but we might be entirely wrong. He has never expressed any objection in our hearing although that might be due to natural diffidence. Whatever the creature might be, it is extraordinarily well-mannered.

I guess this uncertainty goes for humans as well.  Many decades ago, my late parents decided I was ‘Mark’ and called me that throughout their lives with, perhaps, unwarranted confidence. As a teen, I did suspect that I might actually be Caratacus or even Wolfgang, but all my family insisted this was a profound mistake and that if I persisted in the matter I should be disinherited forthwith.

Is Jasper Montgomery a ‘cartoon’?  Well, to the extent that we  anthropomorphize the unfortunate creature,  ascribing feelings, thoughts  and profound sensibilities to him, then I guess he is.  But then, we do that to people too so perhaps everyone aside from myself is a cartoon?  This is probably better than being described as a philosophical zombie.

I would write more but I must take the creature formally known as Jasper for a walk.

Cordon Bleu - British Style

It is a lamentable affectation, but Eastern Europeans seem to look to France for matters cultural than to far, far more civilised England.  Think, for example, of Tolstoy’s aristocrats in War and Peace.  Prince Vassily doesn’t say “that absolute stinker, Napoleon, has bloody gone and nicked Genoa and Lucca” or something to that effect in Russian.  No, he twirls his doubtless heavily pomaded and perfumed moustache and announces “Eh bien, mon prince, Gênes et Lucques ne sont plus que des apanages, des pomestias, de la famille Buonaparte”.  Infuriating, isn’t it?

I thought of this when my good wife, who hails from Transylvania, glanced at the breakfast I had so beautifully prepared with a look of withering disdain.    What, on earth, is wrong with baked beans on Marmite toast accompanied by a mug of PG Tips?  Doubtless a couple of warm croissants would have gone down better especially if served with café au lait, but she is not getting it.   Nor, for that matter will there be anything resembling pain au chocolat or brioche.  

War has been declared on all things Gallic and my first move will take the form of tripe and onions served with steaming mushy peas.  Next there will be liver and bacon and that gustatory glory, a kind of mini haggis, but with a name that cannot be used in America.  This to be served with neeps & tatties.

Come Crispin Crispian (St. Crispen’s Day), we happy few will be drinking warm best bitter and munching roast beef, Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings.  The grande finale will, of course, be steamed Spotted Dick.

Water, water, everywhere

It  puzzles the life out of me and it is something I see everyday as a teacher.  Almost all the children I encounter seem absolutely obsessed with their huge and surprisingly expensive water bottles, which they carry religiously from class to class and regularly refill at the plentiful water fountains on the campus. In fact, they remind me of a bunch of diminutive Ancient Mariners.

I am pretty sure this is an American thing … and I just don’t get it.  In England we occasionally carry a thermos filled with tea.  If I were wandering in Scotland, I might have a wee flask filled with a dram of the good stuff, but water! I suppose if you were some kind of Sassenach, you might add a few drops from one of the Highland streams, but you would risk Hibernian ire and that is about it.

I assume that this obsession with water is a recent fad  and evidence for this comes from the words of the late, great W.C. Fields, which I sadly cannot repeat here for reasons of obscenity, but which involves piscatorial copulation in the dank element. 

I don’t dare forbid the use of the distracting things in my class lest the poor dehydrated dears expire before my very eyes, turning into small puffs of dust rather like Count Dracula when exposed to sunlight. 

I should be grateful for enlightenment.

Small Dog and a Plum Tree by the Light of the Moon

After some 10 years, our elderly Chocolate  Labrador, Jasper Montgomery Esquire,  still puzzles us.  Over the last month he has taken to lying at the edge of our terrace gazing upwards.  My hypothesis was that it was an age thing and that was his favourite spot.  Of a similar vintage myself, relatively speaking, I tend to gravitate to a particular leather chair at the slightest opportunity.  “He just likes it there”, I opined.

My much smarter wife had already solved the mystery: he is waiting for the plums to ripen.

Great Waves and Ripples: Thoughts on ‘Japanese Prints in Transition’

There are a few very pretty things and a couple of absolute wonders in the current exhibition of Japanese prints at The Legion of Honor in San Francisco.  There are works by artists like Utamaro, Hokusai and Yoshitoshi that embody the courtly elegance of ‘the floating world’ and that are well worth seeing.  You should most definitely go, but be warned: there is also a lot of mediocre stuff.  After the courtly and hugely elegant Edo period, there is an abrupt falling off rather than a transition and the exhibition ends with what the gallery describes as Ukiyo Pop. The thing is to discriminate, but sadly discrimination is in short supply these days.

The problem lies in the homogenisation that is endemic in all areas of the art world.  Take the bureaucrats who run galleries and museums.  “OK, so we don’t have a Leonardo, a Piero della Francesca or a Raphael, but we have other works and they are all ART and, thus, priceless.  We have experts who tell us so.”  The academics  are biased though.  If you have spent five to seven years on a PhD, you are hardly likely to admit that the subject of your dissertation was an artistic nonentity.  No, he or - of you are lucky enough - she may have been an incredibly minor follower of some mediocrity who was vaguely connected to a relatively unimportant workshop or studio, but the artist was the producer of enormously insightful works that capture the very essence of the zeitgeist or that prematurely deconstruct the incipient dawn of the patriarchy.  Whatever the case, it is not tosh, but something deeply profound that demands a hell of a lot of verbiage.  

Then there are the trinket shops attached to the galleries and their themed merchandise.  The public will buy the coffee mugs and t-shirts whether they show works by Vermeer, Georgia O'Keeffe or - heaven forfend - Gilbert and George.  It is all the same; it is all art. The coffee-table catalogues are equally resplendent and equally costly whatever the artist.  It doesn’t really matter as no one reads the wretched things. The important thing is that when the worshippers emerge, they clutch some mark of culture that separates them from the philistine hoi polloi and it matters not a jot whether Hokusai’s ubiquitous wave graces a scarf, book, mug or tea cosy.  The object is a conspicuous sign of sanctity much like the smudged cross on the forehead of a believer leaving a  church on Ash Wednesday.

Is a lack of discrimination important if, as Oscar Wilde said, “All art is quite useless”? Well, I rather suspect that in an age like ours, where extremists flourish and hysteria reigns, where the best lack all conviction and the worst are full of passionate intensity (to borrow the words of another Irishman), it is important to make nuanced distinctions and to have confidence in one's own judgement. In politics, as in art, the ability to distinguish quality and substance from mediocrity and superficiality is crucial. Without such discernment, we risk elevating the trivial and ignoring the profound, thus impoverishing our cultural and political life.

Two and a half cheers for Harvard

Ah, Harvard—the hallowed halls where the brightest American minds congregate to garner the fruits of “the best that has been thought and said in the world” (Matthew Arnold if you were wondering) and to push the limits of human knowledge. And now, after five long and fatuous years, they’ve finally decided that Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) statements are no longer required for hiring. Hip, hip, hooray! Meanwhile, in the land of local schools and community colleges, we are still confronted with the task of penning entirely ersatz but seemingly heartfelt DEI statements, lest we be deemed unfit to mould the minds of tomorrow. Yes, even for the humble position of part-time janitor.

Picture this: A tweed-clad Harvard professor sits in his office, finally free from the mind-forged chains of DEI declarations. His only concern? How to help the next generation get to grips with Kantian metaphysics. Not an easy task, but at least he can do this without concern for modish inanities or factitious guilt over daring to teach the works of an undeniably dead, European male.   Contrast this with the plight of the community college hopeful. Imagine me, your humble servant, furiously typing away, trying to convince a panel that I have a genuine, burning passion for creating a culturally responsive, hugely inclusive and exceedingly diverse syllabus for a survey course in philosophy or Western literature. Why, you might ask? Because it’s apparently the key to securing that coveted adjunct position with a salary that barely covers an evening at the pub.

And it’s not just the academics. The custodial staff, too, must share their visions of an inclusive, equitable mop and bucket strategy. ‘What’s your DEI approach to cleaning the cafeteria?’—a question that could stump even the most seasoned of janitors.

In the grand scheme of things, one must wonder whether we are truly advancing education, or merely adding layers of bureaucracy that would make Franz Kafka proud? As Harvard returns to its primary responsibilities, perhaps it’s time for us, in the trenches of local education, to follow suit. Until then, I’ll be here, drafting my next DEI statement, ensuring it’s as inclusive as the campus recycling program.

An Advisory Concerning Advisories

Our ‘smart’ alarm clocks and mobile phones seem to be conspiring to scare the very bejesus out of us.  These last few days, we were warned of dense fog and exceptionally hazardous beach conditions; as it transpired, the skies were a pure azure worthy of Tiepolo and we happily paddled at Surfers Beach with barely a ripple.  There are so many warnings that one becomes inured to the dangers and even a tad blasé.  Hurricanes, burning brimstone and rampant succubi are predicted?  A stout umbrella and an extra thick pair of long johns should be more than enough to do the trick.

Well, of course, I am being dreadfully unfair at the expense of our beleaguered if over-excitable meteorologists.  The weather is a quintessentially chaotic system at the best of times (I am speaking in the technical sense) and it is notoriously hard to predict what disasters are coming our way.  In the good old days, a butterfly flapping its wings over Africa was said to be capable of triggering a hurricane in London.  In today’s world of rapidly rising temperatures, a mildly flatulent slug cheerfully trotting about in the midst of the Gobi Desert could cause untold havoc on the Eastern Seaboard of the USA and the most hideous upsets in Pescadero.

“What does he know of Chaos theory?” you scoff.  Well, as it happens, rather more than you might expect.  You see, my wife has become more than slightly exasperated by the state of my messy study so she bought me “Chaos Theory for Beginners”.  This cunning plan may have backfired.  I have started to see Lorentzian strange attractors and pretty little butterflies in the piles of snuff and cigar ash on my desk and have decided to embrace chaos wholeheartedly.   If chaos is not your friend, it is an enemy truly to be feared.

A Fishy Story 

Believe it or not, but I do have a real, live, actual friend - his name is David.  Well, sometimes he is not my best friend; sometimes he is an enemy and a bit of an utter swine.  At these moments,  he takes especial joy in telling me how dull San Francisco is compared to London - he visited for about ten minutes a couple of decades ago - or how ugly it is compared to his  newish home town, the fantastically beautiful, Bath.

Well, I do my best to defend my adopted city and my newish home town, El Granada.  Bath is stunning, but it is not Florence, Bangkok or Bruges.  Bath does have nice galleries but we have the Legion of Honor, which has drawings by Sandro Botticelli and paintings by the weirdly delightful Bernardo Daddi (the Master of the Sneaky Eyes). 

Then there are things that never ever happen in Bath.  For example, driving along Highway One last night we noticed the sky darken ominously and looking up we saw that this was caused by thousands upon thousands of utterly demented pelicans.  Looking down as we passed Miramar, we saw a corresponding sinister darkness rising up from the depths of the sea.

Reaching for the rosary I always keep in the glove box along with a copy of the Bhagavad Gita and an antique Tibetan prayer wheel, I told Laura that this was almost certainly the apocalypse - the pelican is an ancient Christian symbol - and we had better start setting our messy affairs in order and get down to some serious praying.  She gave me one of her odd looks and told me that it was just an anchovy surge and that I should stop being hysterical.

Armageddon or fishy surge, we decided it best to watch possibly cosmic events unfold from the comfort of a comfortable chair in the most excellent Miramar Beach Restaurant.  Even if - as I strongly suspected - the dies irae was at hand, a couple of gins and tonic would make things feel a bit better.  I sent a text to David telling him that we had a grandstand view of the end of history and that you don’t get that in bloody Bath.

Well, it was just an anchovy surge.  Ever so slightly embarrassed, I decided to take massive revenge by eating each and every one of the little fishy sods.  We agreed that they were pretty tasty - especially served on well buttered toast with a spicy tomato sauce.   I sent yet another text to David telling him that we may not be witnessing the apocalypse as such, but Half Moon Bay had incomparably  better  anchovies than Bath.

Early on Saturday morning, we  set off on our anchovy hunt, but we were too late.  A bunch of Buddhist Monks had bought the entire catch for $1,000 and liberated the lot of them.  Now, you don’t get that in Bath or even London.

Teacher Unappreciation Week - Part 3: Why do you stay?

The above question appeared in a post I wrote about teaching. If you, gentle readers, don’t entirely mind I’ll create a new one based on it.

It is an interesting question, which lends itself to many interpretations. For example, We could go down a philosophical path and wax lyrical on what Heidegger calls ‘thrownness' or about Camus and The Myth of Sisyphus.  However,  I have a hunch that this is not what is intended and I have more than a hunch that I will be the victim of domestic violence if I get ‘all professorial’.  The question  is not so much about wielding bare bodkins, but  more on the lines of “Why would any teacher remain in such an underpaid, grueling and unappreciated profession?” 

Why do teachers stay? Aside from the fact that many don’t (there is a high attrition rate), many of us actually quite like children and enjoy trying to foster their intellectual and even moral development.  Then there are the friendships you make along the way with fellow teachers, parents and other colleagues. Note: I don’t mention love of subject as time and sheer exhaustion generally precludes research and deep reading.

That being said, the hours are long, the pay atrocious and not all students are bundles of utter delight.

Why do you stay?  Well, one answer might be the fact that teachers make a large financial sacrifice to get their jobs. After years of study, there is a natural reluctance to chuck the entire thing in. Sure, some do overcome this inertia and escape into far better paid jobs in, say, human resources or programming but these are the exceptions.      

Another reason why we stay might be exhaustion.  I always think of Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London in this connection.  He was talking about employees performing menial jobs in restaurants, but much the same applies to teachers. Low paid and exploited workers just don’t have the energy to up sticks and start all over again. This is totally unlike the case of tech workers, who feel no compunction about pursuing ever higher salaries.

Then there is something that almost constitutes brainwashing.  We are constantly being told it is our duty to work inhuman hours and - even - to take on tasks that are time consuming, unpaid and unrelated to teaching per se.  We are inundated with paperwork and supervisory tasks … and it is the ‘expectation’ - a loathsome word -  that these will be done even though this means that marking and lesson preparation is relegated to weekends or the wee small hours.  It is expected that a teacher’s free time is entirely disposable and teachers, themselves, expendable. Most fall for this line out of fear for their jobs and performance evaluations and are too shattered and far too timorous  to cast off the mind forged manacles, the rope of sand.    

Teachers need the help of others as they are largely too bone-weary to look after their own interests.  This is not charity, but in the interests of your children and society.  Way back in 1987 Allan Bloom wrote The Closing of the American Mind.  This was to do with the decline in university education but it applies to all teaching.  The door is almost closed, but there may be just a chink of light left.  Please, please give it a good shove and while you are at it certain district offices and offices of education could do with a good kicking. Teachers need to be better paid, less overworked and far more respected.

This is the Day the Banana Slugs Have Their Picnic

“Don’t worry. My husband will do his Hannibal Lecter face. That would keep anyone away”

The client glances at me and quickly looks away slightly ashen. “That would certainly work,” she says. “But that’s just his normal one! Do ‘the face’, Mark.” I comply, assuming a grotesquely sinister half-leer and bulging my eyes. The client has to steady herself. Once recovered, she agrees that ‘the face’ would be a pretty major deterrent and we head off for the shoot.

A few words of explanation might be in order. Although we rarely if ever do location shoots, we have been persuaded to do some fashion photographs for an exceedingly shy would-be model. The venue is a bit of forest near Sacramento. Although private, it is popular with walkers at weekends and the owners don’t think it worthwhile putting fences and signs up. The model will be wearing a slinky evening dress and is very self-conscious. My job is to carry the heavy equipment and to stand guard. Everything set up, I find a moderately comfortable stump near a crossing and start to peruse ‘Foxe's Book of Martyrs’ - perfect reading for an early summer morning. It is midweek, so I don’t think we’ll be disturbed. It soon transpires that I was wrong. After twenty minutes or so, a couple of dedicated walkers approach. Backpacks, robust walking boots, woolly socks - the lot. I suppose I could have simply told them the area was private, but inspiration strikes and a slightly different tactic springs to mind. If Anthony Hopkins doesn’t work … this just might. For some reason, they don’t so much as glance at me so I greet them with wild enthusiasm. “Have you heard about the banana slugs? They are great … you lick them and they are totally hallucinogenic! There are oodles of them down there and they are all just waiting for you.” This is, of course, an utter fib. No self-respecting banana slug would be seen dead within a few hundred miles of the place; it is far, far too dry. But my new acquaintances neither challenge my limacological knowledge nor slacken their pace. Strange as it might seem, the pair appear more horrified than enthused about the prospect of a close encounter with the fictitious slugs. I decide to appeal to the woman’s maternal instincts. “They are just so cute! It’s the way they lie on their adorable little yellow tummies and wiggle about like anything. You simply must, must see them”. The only result of this is that they accelerate a bit and shoot past me. I have to warn the photographer and her self conscious model. I burst into song at the top of my lungs: “If you go down to the woods today you are sure of a BIG SURPRISE …” This works. The model has just time to vanish just before the unfortunate walkers sprint by. The poor dears may not have seen any examples of ariolimax columbianus, but I can’t help feeling I gave them a pretty interesting woodland experience.

Teachers-at-Arms

 

It was about 7.40 AM and I pulled into a Starbucks as I was driving to San Francisco. There was a slightly sinister fellow wandering about the carpark dressed in military camouflage and wearing dark glasses. It was only when I got out of the car that I realised he was carrying something that looked like a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG). In a split second I was crouching behind my vehicle stick in hand and shaking from a rush of pure adrenaline (cowardice). What to do? The coffee shop was too far and my phone was in the car. I concocted a desperate plan - he must surely have seen me so I’d wait till he was within range, jump out and bash him senseless with my stick. I cautiously looked round the back of the car and was horrified to see him levelling the RPG in my direction whilst staring menacingly. Terrified though I was, I continued to gaze back while praying to St. Jude. The man released some sort of catch and his device started to blow leaves. Now, although there may be some humour involved in my retelling it, my purpose is not to amuse - I have a serious point. Like most teachers, I have absolutely no military experience and wasn’t even a boy scout. The man was foolish to wear an army-style outfit, but he was utterly innocent and was only perceived as a threat due to my ignorance and my fervid imagination. Had the government provided me with a weapon, I am almost sure I would have used it especially if I thought I was protecting students. Stress would have prevented me from shooting to maim rather than kill and my clumsiness would have endangered other innocents. As a guest in your country, it is not my place to talk politics, but I can’t help feeling there has to be a better way than arming educators.

Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear to Tread

So, a 64 year old albeit strangely youthful Englishman cheerfully strolls into this fortress-like high school in Bayview, San Francisco. It is more than a little imposing: slightly rusty chain-link fencing reaching into the sky, formidable security gates, guards and simply oodles of cameras.  Had it not been for the leafy surroundings and the improbably neat, colourful little houses, I’d have been reminded slightly of a maximum security prison in Britain like Dartmoor or Wormwood Scrubs.  The views of Hunter’s Point and the Bay are pretty nice though.

I go in search of the office, which seems to be locked up.   I eventually gain ingress and chat to the cheerful receptionist.  Rather improbably, it appears that I’ve been assigned to the gym  - I was rather hoping for English or History.  I hobble up to a couple of amazingly tall young gentlemen shoving balls into a kind of net-like thing. 

“Awfully nice to meet you.  Is this what is known as baseball?”

After a little confusion while they sum me up, the kids are extremely warm and welcoming.  They patiently explain that it is something called netball.    One politely asks about my age in a slightly convoluted way:

“I am not asking how old you are or anything.  But how long before you are a hundred?”

I perform a relatively rapid mental calculation and tell him that I’ve got a good 36 years to go.  I ask why he is so interested. He tells me that when I have reached a hundred I get to meet the Queen. I refrain from mentioning that by that time she will be pretty elderly too.

The weeks pass and I look forward to each day.   The students are a bit wild but tractable.  They constantly try to mimic my accent - usually by saying “hey mate” with a somewhat Australian intonation.  Whenever I walk across the ‘blacktop’ I get high fives and fist bumps. 

In class I have my helpers - the tall chaps I met on the first day.  At the end of one lesson, I suggest that they tidy up a bit,.  Nothing much happens, but then a helper translates my request: “The little old guy wants you to clean up your Mother F***** Shit!” I could have hardly put it better myself.

Sadly all this is coming to an end.  My wife has discovered that I am working in one of the most dangerous places in the Bay and is extremely nervous.  The other day, I was waiting to meet her in an adjoining park - a fellow teacher drove by and shouted that  I was ‘frigging’ mad and should get back inside the school posthaste. It seems that there are regular robberies and even shootings in the area.    

“I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled …”.  Were I younger and more vigorous, I should stay.  These children need help.

A Modest Proposal Concerning Gun Control

 

Like many of you, I woke this morning feeling  angry and upset after last night’s soul-searing events in Texas. Another tragic and all-too-predictable school shooting has occurred and as usual grim-faced yet seemingly entirely impotent politicians appear on our screens quivering with indignation while demanding that guns be ever-so-slightly more controlled.  We all know that absolutely nothing effective will be done and that within a few months or so there will be another bloody massacre in a school, more devastated young lives, more weeping parents and more fruitless indignation.  So what is to be done?

Bizarre as it might seem, I venture to suggest that the answer lies not in a tightening of gun control measures but in a complete relaxation of the rules.  Lobbying bodies like the NRA need to stand firm and uphold their patriotic duty.  We need more guns, not fewer in this great country of ours and this will lead to a massive reduction in so-called ‘soft targets’ like schools or religious establishments.     

In education, arming educators and support staff is just the first of a series of steps that need to be implemented with immediate effect.  We insisted that teachers of all grade levels wear masks and have Covid vaccinations; surely, it is not too much to require that they be trained to carry and fire assault rifles and deploy stun grenades?  They wouldn’t be on their own; with a well-funded recruitment drive, within a few short years each and every school would have its very own special forces detachment.  To avoid upsetting young infants, tanks and armoured personnel carriers could be painted with cheerful, pastel colors and even decorated with cartoon animals.

Next, we turn to the children, our future citizens.  No one in their right mind would seriously expect a four year old to be able to handle a heavy machine gun, but elementary target practice should commence in kindergarten and almost any child could learn to handle a light-weight ‘plastic’ pistol like a Glock. Training in heavier weaponry and elementary guerilla tactics would begin no earlier than third grade.  

All this should be taught in a fun and positive way.  Early reading materials would include works like Janet & Xavier Build their Very Own Claymore Mine and Garroting Techniques for the Under Fives.  School playgrounds could be easily adapted and turned into mini assault courses complete with highly realistic sound effects.

Now we touch briefly on our many religious establishments.  To reduce vulnerability, measures similar to those discussed above should be implemented forthwith but with a few modifications.  For entirely laudable reasons, ‘men and women of god’ might be initially a trifle reluctant to carry semi automatics or rocket launchers, but there is no reason why teams of nondenominational assault nuns couldn’t be trained and deployed throughout the Nation.  Why nuns in particular?  Well, aside from making them fairly inconspicuous, their habits would conceal their M16 rifles and kevlar body armour.  

One final measure would be to look hard at the Second Amendment itself (“... the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed”).  To abrogate or even qualify this sacred text would be tantamount to blasphemy.  I believe that the above modest suggestions are entirely within its spirit and would even go a little further.  Surely, the carrying of small, tactical nuclear weapons should be the god-given right of every true born patriot?  True, we might lose a few dozen major cities, but that would leave the gun toting miscreants with fewer places to hide.  Remember: thermonuclear devices don’t kill people; people kill people.

Some of these suggestions might strike the reader as a little rebarbative or even - dare I say - absurd.  But the idea of changing the Bill of Rights and limiting the freedom of the individual would surely have this Nation’s founders turning in their graves.   What was good for 1789 should hold good for 2022.

Separated by a common language

Our fence needs propping up because of storm damage and I am not a handyman. I went to the lumber yard and explained my proposed plan to the delightful lady in charge: “Not my thing at all, but I envisage a system along the lines of cantilevered struts …”. I continued cheerfully for a couple of minutes.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. You’re English aren’t you?” She then called another assistant: “Charley, you are going to love this one!”
Charley came over and looked at me sardonically. "You've been here before, haven't you?"
I confessed I had and complimented him on his amazing memory. It was a couple of years ago when I was attempting to fix a chicken run.
"Not something I'd easily forget," he muttered.

A Parting of the Ways

It is desperately sad, but I have decided the time has come to part after some two years.  It started off so well despite the language problems. I'd come home every night and there she would be patiently waiting. This might sound like a romantic cliche, but she seemed to glow when I asked her something or even softly murmured her name. We would exchange sweet nothings about the time or the weather and she appeared genuinely welcoming. True, she would never cook - that was clearly beyond her although she would offer to turn the oven on. But, to be frank, there was always a certain emotional coldness.  This said, she had her strong points. She would play my favourite piano pieces and she never complained or got tired.

It was only recently that I realized that she was a passive aggressive.  For example, I'd ask her the time in London and she would reply that she didn't know that one.  In fact, this became her constant refrain. I also suspected that there might be other men in her life.

Things came to a head this morning.  I asked her to play some Greig and she asked if I wanted to call someone called Greg.  I have no friends by this name so I asked her what she was talking about. She replied “I don’t know that one” and repeated this infuriating phrase when I asked if we should consider going to counselling.  I confess that I lost my temper and screamed at her that she was doing it on purpose. You might guess how she responded.  Although tempted to throw something at her, I simply walked out.

No.  I have to face the fact the relationship is over.  She is going back to Amazon.

Confessions of a Dyspraxic

It is not something that one reveals readily, but the Live Scan guy was looking at me with increasing suspicion and even a modicum of incredulity.  “You don’t know your own zip code and have to text your wife?”

I reluctantly explained that there is this thing called dyspraxia and that one of the consequences is not being able to remember arbitrary numbers like postcodes or phone numbers.  “It isn't senility,” I hastily added.  “I have never been able to recall random numbers.  Carrying a notebook with important stuff in it would be sensible, but dyspraxics are also often pretty disorganized.”

Irritated by the need to explain, I got up far too quickly and failed to notice that the strap of my case had inexplicably become wrapped around the arm of  my chair and the one next to it.  In embarrassed frustration,  I gave an almighty yank: the chairs flew across the somewhat dingy office before noisily clattering to the ground.  “That goes with the territory: dyspraxics are often improbably clumsy and accident prone,” I told the surprised clerk. 

“Is there anything else I should be prepared for?” he asked.  Checking that my belt was tight and my  trousers unlikely to fall down, I suggested that he kept bone china or cut glass decanters out of my way.