I’ve given up trying to master it.
I sort of figure there’s no point. As soon as you get it, there’s something new replacing it. That can be particularly frustrating for a prat like me who takes three times as long to learn the basics. I’m always going to be behind.
Now, I gather there’s even this thing called AI (short for artificial intelligence, he says authoritatively), which does everything for you.
By all accounts I can stay in bed, tell my phone I want a year’s worth of these columns written in my style that will give the reader a giggle, press a button — there’s always a button to press — and before I’ve finished my morning wee it’s all done and sitting on the printer.
Actually, in my house, the pages are more likely to be scattered across the floor of the office because I always forget to put that collection extender out on the printer tray.
Come to think of it, this AI thing probably won’t even bother printing them out. It will just send them straight to the offices of this very newspaper, but I’m sure you get my drift.
Anyway. I recognise I still have to have some technology in my life, especially if I want to watch some footy on the telly for example.
Unbeknownst to me, although I gather it was well known among people who were interested in technology and did not fall asleep at the mere sound of the word, the long-established, tried and tested system of getting telly to one’s residence ceased to exist some time back.
Everything went digital.
This meant you either had to use a smart telly and hold your tongue at a certain angle to get your regular fix of Shorty, or do something called “casting” using an oddly named bit of apparatus you plug in the back called a “dongle”.
By all accounts, such activity is quite acceptable when trying to watch telly. I am, however, left in no doubt telling someone I am going home to “cast my dongle” would elicit some rather strange looks, if not a visit from my local policeman.
But I digress.
So, Mrs P and I have been using this casting method for a while now to watch telly but the kids have explained a smart TV is the way to go. Better picture, more channels. And so easy to set up even an idiot could do it.
I’m thinking Tui ad about now ... yeah, right.
But we did it and, before you know it, we are on to the setup phase.
I’m not going to lie to you. I had no idea what was going on.
I did manage to press “New Zealand” when the telly asked me for my location. But that was only because “Lounge” was not an option on the screen.
Somewhere about the time the brain fog began to creep in, Mrs P got a picture and a guide as to what was available to watch. That’s when the brain fog suddenly disappeared.
By the time she had left the room to talk to our neighbour at the front gate, I was working my way through the remote, pushing this button and that. Simple. And fun.
Well, at least it was until I came to the volume control.
Now, I don’t know how I did it but I somehow managed to turn the volume up to the maximum. The noise was so loud my fillings were rattling and Mrs P, at that stage in full natter mode at the front gate, looked round to see what the racket was.
Panicking, I pressed another button and managed to mute the telly. No sound at all.
Okay. Stay calm. It’s obviously something to do with this button. I pushed it again.
Groan. Maximum sound with a capital M. I muted it again, checking to make sure an angry Mrs P wasn’t heading back up the footpath to tell me off for wrecking the new addition to the household.
This went on for four or five attempts before I gave up and took the sensible option. I called No.2 Son in Australia. He’s a tech whiz. I was sure he could sort it.
Luckily, he has trained me on how to do this video call thing so, before I had a chance to break anything really important, there we were face to face. Except I was in my lounge in New Zealand and he was at a playground with his two girls in Melbourne.
Worse still, he was about to go down the slide with Miss Three.
Naturally, pleasantries were exchanged first. I asked about school and swimming club. Whether she’d made any new friends and was behaving for mummy and daddy, all the while keeping an eye on Mrs P still yabbering at the front gate.
That done, Miss Six put on her customer service hat and asked what the problem was.
After a quick explanation, she asked me to press a button on my cellphone that allowed her to see inside our lounge and show her the remote.
Impressed, I did as I was told, and then listened like I was learning the alphabet in my first few weeks at primary school.
“That’s not a button Grandad. It’s called a toggle. It’s a bit like a light switch. You move it up and down instead of pressing on it,” she said kindly, before becoming a little girl again and signing off to go bounce on a trampoline.
By the time Mrs P returned, I had the issue sorted.
“Noise? What noise?” I innocently replied to her question. The one that might get me in trouble if I’d admitted pushing the wrong buttons and messing around with her carefully set up new telly.
As I’m sure you can tell, it wasn’t the only “smart” thing involved in this little saga.
