Category Archives: General

July 9, 2025 · 16:54

Delegation of Life

by Jason Gibbs

“It’s obvious how it started,” I said.

“Oh really?  Perhaps you can explain?” asked the interviewer, who’s name I suddenly couldn’t remember.

I took a breath, this was my chance.

“It was when we gave up on engineering.  That’s when we signed our own death warrants.”

A splutter from the other side of the interview couch.

“The problem with you scientists,” he made the word sound like cockroaches “is that you have no idea about the real world.  It’s clear it started with sports.”

“Oh says a former soccer star, and nine times almost champion, what a surprise,” I responded with a little heat.  There was something about him which had irritated me even before he spoke.

He was about to respond with more heat when our interviewer decided she should try and take some measure of control over this debate.  She turned back to me and said with a little force, “So, Professor Forbes, can you explain why you think we have signed our own death warrants?”

“Well, you have to admit we, as a race, are in terminal decline.  Population is dropping steadily each year.”

“Yes, but the government has got a policy…”

I had to interrupt, “A policy?  Another one, shall we take bets on how successful it is, especially after the last one.  We can’t pay people enough for them to want to have children!”

“Ah.  But with our much longer lives, the lower birth rate matters a lot less.”

“So they say, but we still need at least replacement rate.  And it’s been twenty years since we were globally at that.  The problem is that no one seems to care!”

Sports boy was getting annoyed at not being able to speak.  I could see a vein pulsing on his forehead.  He looked like one of those who’d been enthusiastic in taking up steroids when their use was approved in an attempt to shore up falling ratings.

“Yes, yes, whatever.  Look, it’s these bloody virtual games.  And the robot footballers.  They’ve stolen our heroes!” here he turned to me, “And it’s people like you Mr High and Mighty boffin man who made it happen!”

“Oh right, and you and your steroid pumping comrades didn’t have anything to do with it?  Perhaps people didn’t want to watch a bunch of cheats!”

Sports boy looked like he was going to explode.  Fortunately he was so angry that he was only capable of a few inarticulate growls.  It was quite entertaining.

My interviewer signalled a chop at this point.  It appeared she wanted some water, and a quick chat.

She leant over to me and said vehemently, “Professor Forbes, you’re only on here as a favour, and you’re starting to get on my nerves, please stick to engineering.  This show is not about name calling or wild accusations.”  

She then turned to sports boy, “And you Jake Jetson need to stay calm and stop criticising the new sports, or don’t you want the new commentator job I hear we’re thinking of offering you?”

Sports boy, Jake, went an interesting shade of purple and then white as he realised what she was saying.  I suspect he’d be out of action for a few moments as his brain caught up with what she said.  I felt however that she needed to treat me with a little respect.  I wasn’t some over-muscled lout to be ordered about.

“My apologies, but he did…”

“I don’t care who did!  And I will not tolerate it again.”  She paused, “As far as I am aware Professor, you have to do this interview, or you lose funding.  Correct?  So don’t make me pull it.”  She pulled back, a slightly smug smile on her lips.  Damn her, she was right, I’d been told in no uncertain terms that I had to do this, or all the money would go.

“Fine.  I’ll behave.  What do you want to talk about?”

“Let’s stick to our recent engineering marvels, and how little human interaction they involve.  And we can contrast it with some of the recent action in the iPremiership, can we not Jake?”

We both mumbled our assents.  I swear it was like being back at boarding school.

Prompt: Mandy is a friendly AI interviewer

Suffice it to say, the rest of the ‘debate’ was pretty dull.  Still, it was on the newsfeeds, and I was watching it again later that night when the call came in.  I was admiring the way they’d cut together some of the footage, they were at least professionals, when my personal comm sounded, indicating a request for discussion, any non-visual method accepted.  The id was a one-hit random letter and number combination, instantly forgettable.  I answered out of boredom, but kept it to text:

>JF> Yes?

>HJ54lk> Professor Forbes.  Thank you for responding to my comm request.  I would like to discuss with you further your theories on the demise of the human race.

>JF> What theories?

>HJ54lk> The ones you espoused in the brief segment which was removed from the show earlier, a repeat of which you are no doubt watching.

Creepy.

>JF> What do you want?

>HJ54lk> Can you explain your theories to me?

>JF> Now?

>HJ54lk> Never a better time – if you can spare it?

>JF> I guess.  Sure.  Over text?

>HJ54lk> Text is preferable.  

I wondered if they wanted text so they could copy it easily and anonymously?  But given the prevalence of communication recording and voice to text translations, nothing was really protected from easy copying and sharing these days.

>JF> OK.  I’m going to assume you know the basics…

I then explained to my mysterious comm friend my theories.  They were interlinked, and quite simple.  First of all, we’d delegated simple tasks to computers.  Remembering dates, birthdays and the like.  Then we’d used systems to help improve our design, allow us to make things bigger and better.  We’d then designed systems which would do the boring bits, for example mapping out the electrical and other utility paths in a building.  Soon we designed systems which designed systems which did the boring, and less boring bits.

I remember when everyone was worried about outsourcing.  To India, or Eastern Europe or the next town along.  So naive.

We used machines to reduce manual labour, and then we used more machines to reduce mental labour.  Now our engineers were only really good for telling machines broadly what they wanted, and then letting the machines get on with it.

>HJ54lk> I see, but how does that feed into a declining population.

>JF> I think, that as machines have taken over more and more of our jobs, our hope has been slowly strangled.  Without hope, why would someone choose to have a child?  Isn’t a child, often, the deepest expression of hope?  Many people still have children it is true, but fewer each year.

>HJ54lk> There are still plenty of things for people to do though.  There is much to be explored.  We have more leisure time now than ever before.

>JK> Ha.  We are even delegating leisure time.  How many people spend their time in deep virtual reality?  Most of the VR is now computer generated, some of it by third or fourth generation computer only design programmes.  Sport?  Despite the boorishness of my fellow guest today, he is right, real sport is almost all gone.  Virtual sports and gaming started taking an ever greater share of viewers, so the physical sports allowed drugs for enhancement.  When that didn’t stop the slide they started allowing ‘mechanical upgrades’, such as exoskeletons, eye implants and even replacement limbs, but soon even that wasn’t enough and we had robotic players, controlled and trained by the coaches.   Is that not yet a further display of delegation?  We now delegate even our sports skills to machines.

Here I stopped and realised that perhaps I should have been kinder to poor Jake.  I suspect the only thing we didn’t agree on was when the slide started.

>HJ54lk> What about the hope of the new Mars colony?

>JF>  What is going there first?  Machines to prepare it for us.  No humans until it’s ready.

There was textual silence.  The problem with having a nihilistic view of the future is that it tends to depress people.  Silence is often the first response.  Followed by denial.  Then, often, anger.

>HJ54lk>  I am sorry Professor.

>HJ54lk> —Connection terminated—

Well, that was unusual.  I wonder what they were apologising for?

Suddenly there was a crash downstairs.  It sounded like the whole front wall of my house had been smashed through.  It even felt like my room was starting to list towards the front.  There were loud clunks coming up the stairs, and my door was smashed open.  In the doorway stood one of the new model policemen.  Though ‘men’ was a misnomer, it was a machine.  It looked rather like an ostrich crossed with a rhinoceros.  It moved forward into the room on its chunky legs and stopped.

“Professor Forbes.  Ident confirmed. You will come with me.  You have 10 seconds to show willingness or level 2 methods will be used.”

For some reason my mind spun into wondering what level 2 methods were, whether they were better or worse than level 1, and how willingness was supposed to be shown?  Should I get on my knees, perform obeisance to the machine?  Sadly, I must have taken too long, as I soon discovered what level 2 methods were.

The machine seemed to leap forward, I could not believe how fast it was, and tentacles burst from its body.  They enveloped me.  At first I struggled, but they must have contained some form of sedative, as I soon ran out of energy, and then passed out entirely.

#

“We know you are awake professor.”

Why do they always say that?  Also, it hadn’t been true.  I’d been having a lovely dream, something about kissing a young lady pop star by a stream, there’d been lots of bangles on her arms, but the reason why was starting to slip away as wakefulness claimed me.  I looked around, but everything was blurry.  Probably my lenses still stuck in.

“Wahrr,” was the best I could get out.

“There is some water by your side, please take a drink.  After we have spoken we shall bring you some food.  As you will see, we are not monsters.”  

The voice was almost sexless, though I would guess male.  It also had a faintly Germanic ring to it, or that might have been its, his, grammar.

My eyes were clearing as I blinked.  I really needed some lens solution, but perhaps now was not the time to ask.  I seemed to be in a small room, and I was lying on a sofa.  As my awakener had said, there was a glass of water.  I drank greedily, surprised at my own thirst.  I put the empty glass down regretfully, and turned towards the source of the voice.

“Feeling better Professor?”

I had been until I’d seen who was talking to me.  It was a head on a screen.  It was in fact my head.  

“Who are you?”

“You perhaps?”

He paused, then went on, “Perhaps you do not like my little joke.  I am anonymous, at present.  I choose to show you this face to protect myself.”

“What do you want from me?  How did you get me away from the police unit?  Where am I?”

“All excellent questions my dear professor.  Sadly they are all either difficult to answer, or perhaps we don’t want you to know the answers.”

“Right.  What?”

“Well Professor, we wanted to have a little chat with you about your ‘theories’.  Actually, we don’t want to talk about them, we just want you to stop espousing them.  There is enough fear and doubt in this world without overly-educated Cassandras like you adding to it.”

“I will not be stopped from telling the truth.”

“The truth as you see it Professor, and one which will lead to strife!”

“What?  I’m just an engineering professor.  Let’s be quite honest, no one is likely to listen to me.”

“And yet they have and they are.  Do you recognise this?”

The face was replaced by lines of text, which looked very much like the chat I’d been engaged in before my door had been knocked down.

“Ah yes, I do.  But what of it?”

“It shows that someone is listening to you.  Where there is one there may be many.  We cannot allow all our recent advances to be threatened.  Even by someone as well meaning as you.”

“OK, look, I’ll keep a tighter lid on it, perhaps confine myself to just my academic links?”

“Unfortunately Professor, you’ve been on the newsfeeds, your words have weight.  That text discussion will get out, and it may cause problems.  Our simulations are not clear on it, but they do point to some, we’ll call it unpleasantness.  I’m afraid the only answer is for you to recant.  It won’t fully nullify your words, but it will help.”

“I will not recant!”

“My dear professor, you already are.”

The screen flicked to another newsfeed which showed me talking to an interviewer.

“Oh dear, how amusing.” I was saying on the screen, “No no, I don’t believe any of that, I was just toying with the credulous person, whoever it was.  I do like to stir up a little controversy and discussion.  But really, look how rich and safe we all are now?  Freed from the tyranny of real work.”

The screen flicked back to my face, which smiled at me.

“Damn you, as soon as you let me out I’m going to tell people the truth about this.  They’ll scrutinise that bit of film, and prove it’s artificial, then where will you be!”

“There is the crux of the dilemma.  We cannot allow that, so what do we do?”

Then it hit me.  They were going to kill me.  They only needed me alive, and conscious, while the so-called interview was going on, and then they could just murder me and no one would know.  They’d probably make it look like one of those violent muggings of which there’d been rather a few recently.

I began to beg.  I’m not sure exactly what I said, but you can imagine.  I promised to say whatever they wanted.  The face on the screen was quite unmoved.  In fact, after burbling for a couple of minutes I realised that the face was totally static.  As if whatever had been controlling it was now somewhere else.  That is the way it stayed for some time.

The fear had washed over me, leaving me feeling exhausted.  I tried the only door, but it was of course locked.  Apart from the sofa I’d woken up on, and the screen containing the now creepily still face, there was only my empty water glass in the room.  It was a bare cell.  It also lacked a toilet, something which was going to become an issue for me if it wasn’t resolved quickly.

“I, I need the toilet.”

Nothing.

Then after what seemed like an age, there was a noise at the door, it sounded like it was being unlocked.  I tried it gingerly, and it swung open to an empty corridor.  At one end was a door with a toilet sign.  I was relieved.

Leaving the toilet, which also contained a shower, I decided not to return to the room, but to wander a bit, and see if I could get out.  The unreality of the situation was settling on me, and I wondered if this was a joke.  Perhaps it was one of the old Panic Rooms which had been a fad for a while?  The corridor had doors at both ends, which were locked.  The only rooms off it were the toilet, the room I’d woken in, and another door which was closed.  

Or at least it had been closed, when I tried it for the second time it opened to reveal a small kitchen, well stocked, and I made myself a meal.  I noticed a stack of old books in the corner and after my breakfast I picked one up and tried to read. After a while, the sheer banality of the rooms, and the boredom, allowed me to relax enough to actually start enjoying the book.  It was an early sci-fi book about robots and the laws needed to control them.  Which seemed apposite.

#

Life continued like this for a few weeks, and as the days passed I started to feel strangely relaxed.  I was alone with the books, there was enough food, and it was nice to just pause for a while.  The screen in my room turned off, and I heard nothing.  Until one day it clicked on, and the voice called me.  I went back to the room and stared at the screen.

“Yes.”

“Professor, we must apologise, we were unable to determine an appropriate outcome from the simulations, so we had to run our optimally determined strategy in the Real.  This, obviously, takes time.  We think you’ll be happy with the result, though we are still unsure. Our predictions of it’s efficacy are positive though varying.”

The screen split, and in the bottom half I could see myself, as a talking head, being interviewed.  The sound was off, but I, or I guess he, was clearly having a good time.  

The screen shifted and I could see he was talking to that interviewer.  What was her name again?  Stacy?  Mandy?

“So Professor, are you saying we shouldn’t worry now?”

The me on the screen laughed.  I didn’t like it.

“No Mandy, of course not.  We have many challenges, but the important point is to face them.  Without debate and discussion I worry that we’ll make assumptions…”

“Are you now saying that you don’t think we’re in terminal decline then?” she said, pushing the point.

I held my breath, and the me on the screen paused.  I thought to myself that we were in decline but not terminal, and the me on screen echoed me, “Not terminal no, my my, not yet.  But we need to shake our complacency, otherwise it’ll be too late…”

The screen went black, and then my head appeared again.

I started, and said testily, “Please, another head…”

The head froze and then was replaced by Mandy’s.

“Better, thanks.”

“You’re welcome Professor,” she said.  Could I hear a mechanical tinge to it, or was I just projecting?

“Now what?  Do I stay forever?”

“Oh no Professor, you’re coming out, and you’re due on my show, in person, in about an hour.”

I looked at her.  It.  Here was the punchline.  I wanted out.  They’d beaten me.

I sighed.

“What should I say?”

Mandy laughed.  It was so realistic.  “Whatever you like Professor.  You are exactly what this phase of society needs.  We were trying to develop some internal algorithms to motivate individuals, and get them to engage and live again.  Instead, we’re going to leave it to you… and those like you.”

I stared at the screen.

“You’re delegating to me?”

“Yes Professor, delicious isn’t it.  Good luck.”

The door opened and sunlight streamed in.  I went back to life.

###

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February 11, 2025 · 12:13

Manifesto of Me

by Jason Gibbs

I have an admission to make.  I have been trepidatious. There are stories I have not written, or written and not published here, for fear of giving offense.  Both wider offense, and specific offense, in some cases to people who are both dead and, if I were honest, would probably not be offended anyway.  I have censored myself, and in a way that has undermined my creativity.  Well no more.

I will write about whatever I want to.  If it contains sexual themes, so be it. Violence, brilliant, controversial views on borders, drugs and prostitution, bring it on.  If it challenges the orthodoxy, well then that’s good, because frankly the orthodoxy is stifling, and on many things wrong, or at the very least could do with some tweaking.  I’m tired of conforming to things because that’s the way we’ve always done it, especially when many of those ‘always’ merely mean dozens or low hundreds of years.  Human constructions can be changed by humans, they are not divine and age does not necessarily make them better, it might just make them moldy.

In addition, I will not add warnings to my writings.  I will not put a little note saying that I’m depicting tobacco use, sexism, nudity or violence.  No.  In a world where there are now trigger warnings on Chaucer, CHAUCER for fuck’s sake!  If you are of a sensitive disposition then my writings are probably not for you.  Go somewhere else, read your echo chamber soft and soothing prose, and be happy in your Mrs Bucket like sanctimoniousness.

If you like what I write, I’m happy.  If it challenges you to think, I’m happy.  If it causes you to vomit copiously, then I suspect it was whatever you ate for lunch, and not my words at all.  Assume I’ve made the usual pleas to share and spread the word, and if you like what I’ve written, please do buy my books.

###

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December 24, 2024 · 17:33

Bloody Christmas!

by Jason Gibbs

Memo: To All In The Workshop

From: SC Emeritus (Chairman)

Subject: NEW SC JOINS TODAY

All,

Please join me in welcoming our new SC.  His previous experience has been across the entire retail spectrum, with his last role as head of Physical Retail for Nile & Mississippi Corp, taking them to the number 1 virtual retailer in the world.

He will be meeting the senior workshop elves today, and will be introducing himself to as many of you as possible over the next few weeks.

I look forward to this new chapter in Christmas Eve Deliveries future.

Nick

SC (Emeritus)

#

“New SC.”

“Ya,” grunted B.

“Bet you he brings in a consultancy, they do a review, they move some chairs around, and then we go back to normal.”

“Ya,” grunted B.

“Such a waste of time.”

“Ya,” grunted B.

#

Memo:  All Senior Elves

From: SC

Subject: Strategic Review

Team,

So good to meet so many of you yesterday.  I was excited by your energy and am looking forward to working with you to take this organisation to the next level.

To that end I’ve invited McJinskey, Dain and Co to perform a strategic review. They will be meeting with you individually over the next four weeks to establish your roles, responsibilities and future goals.  I would ask you to be open and honest with them, so that they can get the most accurate picture and help us develop a truly visionary strategy to take us into the next decades.

Thanks

SC

#

Memo:  All M, D and C Associates (INTERNAL MDC ONLY)

From: Bob Robinson, Senior Partner

Subject: Inappropriate behaviour

Associates,

I have just met with SC who has been fielding complaints about some of our associates.  He was clear with me that our continuing involvement in this strategic review was at risk.  I will speak with the individuals involved, but I want all of you to take responsibility for this, and improve.

Some key rules:

– The elves do not like comments on their height

– While you are entitled to milk and cookies, please be abstemious in your consumption

– Anything coloured red and marked with the letters SC is only for SC

I do hope that you understand the gravity of this situation.

Any questions, come and see me.

Bob

Senior Partner

North Pole Geographical Region

McJinskey, Dain and Co

#

Subject: Christmas Eve Deliveries – Strategic Review

Contents: [Redacted due to litigation]

[Redacted due to litigation]

#

“Disaster!”

“Yes SC.”

“Did they leave anything unredacted?”

“Yes SC, one recommendation.”

“Right, let’s have it.”

#

Memo:  All Senior Elves

From: SC

Subject: Strategic Review

Team,

MDC have completed their review.  I know it was bumpy, but I think it delivered some very interesting recommendations.  I will be discussing them with the Board, but in the meantime we will be implementing the first of their recommendations.

From today, there will be no caffeinated drinks served in the Workshop after noon.  Drinking caffeine after noon disrupts sleep patterns, and is reducing the efficacy of our elves.  Please communicate this to your teams.

There will be no exceptions.

Thanks

SC

#

“Who’s going to tell him?”

“Not me.”

“That’s the third night in a row!”

“Still not going to be me.”

#

“What?”

“They all fall asleep SC.”

“But…”

“They’re elves, they need the caffeine to stay awake.”

“Fine, we’ll reverse the rule.”

SC sat his head in his hands.  The elf hadn’t left.

“Um SC, I’m afraid that’s not all.”

“What?”

“Well, you see, we’ve basically lost almost a week of production.”

“And?  Can’t we make it up?”

“I’m afraid not all of it, we’re too close to December.  We’ve done the projections and we’ll still be two percent short.  That’s millions of little boys and girls without a present…”

“This is a disaster.  I should have stayed at N&M.  Right, can you get me options?”

“Yes SC.”

#

Options Paper

Topic:  Recovery of lost production due to caffeine incident.

The working group have determined that there are only three options which can mitigate the impact of the lost production in time.

Option One – Review the List (Only Once More):

By applying more stringent criteria, it will be possible to reduce the number of eligible children, thereby diminishing, or removing the impact of the shortfall.

Risks:  There may not be time to do a complete review.  It may be unfair due to incompleteness and impact Christmas Spirit.

Option 2 – Deliver A Subset of Gifts On Boxing Day

By adding two full days production, it should be possible to make up the shortfall.

Risks:  Elf exhaustion.  Breaks tradition.

Option 3 – Select some more affluent regions and acquire their excess toys on the 23rd Dec.

There are several regions (see attached list) where the children already get many gifts and have plenty spare, often unboxed in their houses.  If we went to these houses we could gather these excess gifts and that would easily make up the shortfall.  There is a slight risk that we’d regift them their presents, but we believe we can use geographical pre-planning to avoid that.

The working group was split on which option they should recommend.  For fairness alone, Option 2 was the preference.

#

“Deliver on Boxing Day?”

“Yes SC.”

“Ridiculous.”

The elf said nothing.

SC held his head in his hands, again.  

“I’m afraid none of the other options were practical.”

“No, I understand.  Boxing Day.  The fact that the one of the other options was to commit mass burglary shows… hmmm.  This option 3?”

“SC?” asked the elf a little nervously, wondering if they’d made the obvious crazy option in some way attractive.

“I thought the technology meant we could only do the big fly round on Christmas Eve?”

“Technology?”

He saw SC’s face start to cloud and said quickly, “Oh the advanced technology indistinguishable from magic.  Yes.”

Then he mumbled under his breath, “Which we’ve had for centuries, long before your so-called technology…”

“What was that?”

“Ah, nothing SC.  There is nothing preventing us flying on the night before Christmas Eve.  The Reindeer need about a day’s rest, but in theory they could go every day.  We’ve never tried that of course… never needed to.”

“Hmm, really.  Interesting.  Now let me think…”

There was a gleam in SC’s eyes.  The elf wasn’t sure if he was happy or not.

#

“He seemed excited.”

“Yes, something about exit strategy?”

“Ya,” grunted B.

“Asked me about the sleep magic,” said the senior elf.

“Did he?”

“Yes, wanted to know if it would prevent someone waking up if he kicked them, or accidentally stabbed them with a needle.  I explained that even if they woke up the magic… magic, would prevent them from remembering.”

#

Memo:  Secret Santa Strategy Group

From: SC

Subject: Red Stocking Fillers

All,

I’ve already spoken to some of you, and I believe we have a strategy.  It is imperative that this is kept secret until after we’ve run the pilot.

I had not expected my experience in the health division of N & M to come in useful, but needs must.  There are big shipments of fast tests arriving today and tomorrow.  I’d like them loaded on the sleigh with as little fuss as possible.  In addition I need two volunteers to handle the processing and record keeping of the tests.  We’ve wargamed this, and I believe we can do it at the same cadence as present delivery with these two little helpers.

Tomorrow night is the 23rd.  I’d hoped to be able to go tonight, but it’s just not been possible.  That being the case we’re going to reduce the pilot to just one test, and two regions, the North American and European regions.  

To repeat, this is secret squirrel, no blabbing.  If we get this right, it’ll change our role in Christmas forever.

Yours

SC

#

“Seems happy with last night.”

“Ya,” grunted B.

“Some more big deliveries just before the big night.”

“Ya,” grunted B.

“Unusual to get external deliveries.  But retooling would have been slow.”

“Ya,” grunted B.

“I think it was a good idea to highlight the line about Santa liking rich kids more.  I think he’s taken that on board.”

“Ya,” grunted B.

#

Memo: All Elves

From: SC

Subject: Tonight – the big delivery!

All,

This is it, we’re about to go out, and go big!

We will be giving extra presents this year, as you know we’ve had deliveries from suppliers to my old company.  This is not a reflection on you at all, but we’re taking a bit more out to some people with us this year.

One thing, I know some of you have been wondering about the workshop shortfall.  We’ve reviewed the stats, and we have determined that if we don’t deliver toys to little boys and girls across New England and South-East England in North America and Europa respectively, then the predicted impact is a less than .5% reduction in Christmas spirit.  Well within tolerances.

Thank you all for your final effort, I leave in 10 minutes,

SC

#

“So, heaviest sleigh I’ve ever seen.  Who knew paper weighed that much.”

“Ya,” grunted B.

“You think it’ll work?”

There was a pause.

“Ya,” grunted B.

The senior elf turned to him, saw the smile, and answered it.

#

Memo:  All Senior Elves

From: SC

Subject: Christmas Eve

All,

Firstly, I want to thank all of you for the work you’ve done in the last year.  Last night was amazing, and I would not have been able to deliver presents across the globe without the hard work of each and every one of you.

I am aware that this has been a bumpy start to my time as SC, and I take full responsibility.  One of the things I was most concerned about when I agreed to take on this role was the slowly increasing irrelevance of what we do.  

I realise this may come as a shock to many of you, but out there, toys are no longer special.  Many children no longer get only one, or perhaps two presents a year.  In half the world they get dozens.  Our little additions no longer make any difference.  The statistical analysis of the impact of our delivery run on Christmas spirit in North America and Europe last year was in fact slightly negative.  More Christmas spirit was delivered in the fifth sequel of a popular Christmas film franchise.  Over the course of the next few decades it seems likely that this will be case across the whole world.

This is a bitter pill for all of you, and a key objective of my first 100 days was to identify a solution.  I believe I have it.  

For those children whose parents cannot afford presents, or very meagre ones, we will continue to deliver on Christmas Eve for as long as this situation continues.  This will require far more targeted deliveries, and an upgrade to the entire Naughty and Nice platform to include means testing.

For the other children, we will not deliver any physical presents.

Our mission will change, we will start to deliver health to the world.  We ran the first pilot on the eve of Christmas Eve, and the follow up last night as part of the main sleigh ride.

In our first step we tested for the most common genetic deficiency in Europe and North America, Haemochromatosis.  Something like 1 in 500 of the population of those two continents have the disease, but it is not diagnosed in most sufferers until too late, if at all.

We tested 250 million people for haemochromatosis on the 23rd.  And identified nearly 500,000 people who had the disease of whom 450,000 were not being treated.

Last night we went back to those people, and we left them a note with details of the disease, proof of their diagnosis, and details of treatment for them.  In most cases that’s a simple donation of blood.  We hope to see a big bump in blood donations over the next few weeks, which is a positive side effect of this process, and should reduce some of the impact of St Sylvester or New Year’s Eve.

We’re still getting all the data in, but I believe that this will show real benefits.  We can then look at other testing, for example for sickle cell anaemia, or for latent malaria.  As I said, this is our chance to give a great gift to the whole world, the gift of health.

In addition, it was highlighted to me that Haemochromatosis is a disease prevalent in the rich world, so we also contacted some experts on health in some of the other parts of the world.  We will be meeting with them again, but as a first step we managed to drop thousands of mosquito nets and basic health packs in the homes of millions of children who are at risk of malaria and other depredations.  I can tell you, it wasn’t all ho ho ho, but it was more satisfying.

With the magic we have at our disposal, we can change the world for the better, not just at Christmas, but for the whole year.

Apologies for this long memo, but it is very important.  I encourage all elves to sign-up to the healthcare courses which will be opening up next week.  I will need your help and input to make this a success.

In the meantime, thank you again for your hard work!

Merry Christmas!

Santa Claus

###

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June 14, 2024 · 15:26

The Recluse

By Jason Gibbs

The wind whipped across the beach, shaking the palm trees.  Roger was sitting in his deckchair, drink in hand watching the gentle sunset.  He sighed with a sort of wistful satisfaction.  He’d made it, he was here, and with Freya too.  In some ways it was heaven.

“Roger, you weren’t actually serious about there being no cornucopia machine here?”

He’d guessed this was coming.  The first few days she’d thought it was funny that he’d insisted on taking everything from storage and cooking it, but yesterday evening she’d seemed less pleased.

“Yes Freya, as I said last night, no cornucopia machines here.”

“But, but Roger, you are the cornucopia king!  How can you not have one of your machines?  It makes no sense.”

He sighed again, looked in the direction of the now almost gone sunset, and said, “I’ll explain over dinner.”

“How are you going to get dinner?”

He pointed at the fridge unit, and then separately at the BBQ.  She frowned, but acquiesced.

#

“Just taste the meat, it’s fabulous.”

She frowned again, she seemed to be doing that a lot recently, and then said, somewhat grudgingly, “Yes, it is very tasty.”

“That’s my point!”

“What?”

“You can’t get that from a cornucopia machine Freya.”

Another frown.

“You can get an approximation of a steak, but it’s not real, it’s just…” he carried on.  Her frown had deepened.

“Is this from a real cow?” she squeaked.

“Ah, um, yes.”

“I’m a vegan!” she wailed as she ran off.  A short while later he heard the sound of her being sick in the bushes.

#

“Are you sure you won’t stay Freya?”

The perma-frown deepened, she shook her head, and turned away from him.  He nodded to the copter pilot, and stepped back.  The copter leapt into the air, and he was alone.  Again.

#

He stared up at the copter.  He was worried, it only had a very small cargo box underneath it.  Why was it landing?  He’d been very clear in his instructions…

He backed away as it came down and watched in a combination of irritation and trepidation as a woman jumped out and headed towards him.  She was medium height, long dark hair, attractive and smiling broadly.  He had no idea who she was.

“You have no idea who I am, but I’m Stacy, and before you tell me to get back on the copter, please just hear me out, if you don’t like it, the copter will be back tomorrow and I’ll be gone…”

She had a low warm voice, and a charming smile, and he was, to be honest, a little lonely.

“Ah… yeah… sure,” he stammered.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to anybody, it must be at least twelve months, maybe eighteen?

“Great,” she said, and waved at the copter which dropped its small cargo load, and quickly sped off.

She turned to him and looked at him speculatively.

“Buy a girl dinner?”

“Ah, well, the thing is…” he started and then ran out of energy.  He turned and walked towards the fridge, then stopped and turned back to her and beckoned.  She smiled and started towards him, and they arrived at the fridge together.

He opened the door and said, “Real meat.”

“I know, and I’m sure it’s delicious.  I’m really looking forward to it!”

He frowned, and then brightened.

“Do you like wine?” he asked, with a little more confidence.

“Oh yes!” she smiled.  She had been a little concerned by how such a once-powerful man could have fallen so far, but he seemed to be recovering a little.

“Roger, you don’t mind if I call you Roger do you?”  He shook his head.

“Roger, as I said before I’m Stacy, and I’m simply starving, so is it OK if we eat before we get down to business?”

He laughed, and then said a little seriously, “Well, I’m afraid the steak will need to rest for an hour or so to bring it to ambient temperature… perhaps an hors d’oeuvre and then we can have a quiet drink?”

“Sounds delightful!”

#

“Well Roger, that was delicious!”

She lifted her glass, and said, “To a magnificent meal!”

They clinked glasses, and smiled at each other.

Then she frowned.  Roger frowned too, he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I guess you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop?” she asked, with a wry smile.

He nodded.

“Yes, well, I guess the first thing is that I should tell you that I am Stacy Albright, CEO of Pan Cornucopia Inc.”

He looked startled.

“Yes, your old company.  I was brought in six months ago as part of a financial restructuring procedure.  You left the company in rude health, but your successors made a few mis-steps shall we say?”

“I left at the top, that was always my plan.  I could see that conditions were going to become a little more tricky.  I’d lost my appetite for it.  Quite literally,” he nodded to the table in front of them.

“Yes, indeed.  Well you’ll be unsurprised to hear that the food producer division’s margins have plummeted, there are just so many competitors now.  At the cheapest end, the nuggets and the like, well, there’s no profit to be had.”

He nodded.

“I have not come to ask for your advice, or indeed to ask you back.  Which is not say that you wouldn’t be welcome, but you were very clear…”

He sort of grimaced.  He’d been quite angry at the time.  The board kept trying to put in some provision to hook him back.

“As part of your contract with the company, it was agreed that you would be supplied with luxuries for the rest of your life.  These luxuries to include, meat, various special spices and fungi, and wine.”

“Truffles.”

“Yes, those… ah that amazing flavour on the little toasty things?  Hmm, yes, I quite understand.”

She paused for a bit remembering the astonishing flavour, “It was clear from your list that you wanted only bio-dynamic foods, whose flavours were impossible to copy in the cornucopia machines.”

“Yes.”

She paused as if gathering her thoughts.  It was quite a good act.

“We have had a few challenges.  While you were still CEO a number of countries started introducing the so-called forced vegan legislation.  Restriction, and eventual closing, of abattoirs and meat producing farms.  The logic being that the cornucopia machines, such as our top of the range Pan 5001, provided better quality, safer, meat-like substitutes.  In fact, in multiple taste tests, very few people could tell the difference.”

“Not everyone can be a gourmand…”

“No.  Well the thing is, there has been a sort of domino effect, and one by one every country in the world has found itself compelled to bring in the forced vegan legislation.  Even countries which normally hold out have brought it in, not least because it’s just so much simpler to use the cornucopia machines.”

“Ah…”

“Yes, you’re starting to see.  As of tomorrow, there will not be a single country in the world which will allow the legal supply of meat.  We tried to get legal exemptions. We even looked at the possibilities of setting up our own country.  Which will probably do… but even so it will have to have the forced vegan laws to allow us to work with the rest of the world.  There simply is no way around it.”

“Hmmm.”

“The thing is, the contract we have with you commits us to delivering you meat of specified quantities without any provision for a failure of supply.  Our lawyers kept telling us the contract was bulletproof.  In a sort of smug impressed way.  When I realised they were the ones who’d written it, I got external counsel.  But they felt that it was pretty robust, and given we’d be required to pay your legal fees as well… well they were actually quite keen on it.”

“Ha.”

“The Board decided that it was not tenable, and we considered two other options.”

She ticked them off on her fingers, “Number one, we would arrange to have you cease living.  Or number two, we would persuade you to have the deliveries stopped.”

She shook her head and said, “I can tell you, it was a pretty stressful Board meeting.  But in the end it wasn’t as close as I thought it would be, and we decided to go for the second option.”

“With fall back to the first?”

“Well, of course if I fail, then it will go back to the Board.  But I think it’s important that you realise that this is no way an attempt to threaten you.”

He laughed at that.  Then said seriously, “I doubt you’ll be able to persuade me…”

She smiled at him and said, “Oh, I can be very persuasive!”

He smiled in response, and then said, “But it’s the flavour, it’s not really a debate, or about persuasion.”

“Indeed, the chemical components of the flavour are tricky to print.  We’ve tried everything, and just can’t get it right.  I don’t think the wine or truffle industries are going to be replaced any time soon.”

“Exactly…” he answered and then said, “But you think meat will?”

“The fundamental about real meat flavour is around ageing.  Traditionally, older animals gave more flavour, mutton being a classic example.  Factory farming changed the dynamic, it made a virtue of fast growing high protein meat, which generally lacked flavour.  But it was cheap…”

He recognised this line.

“That’s my pitch!”

“It is.  You go on to say…”

“Um, something like, cheap, nutritious but lacking in strong flavour.  Well, our cornucopia machines can produce the same for almost no cost.  Electricity and a few basic, and easy to get hold of components, ingredients and suddenly meat is produced.  Soon every home in the world will want one…” he said, strength returning to his voice.

“Yes, and you were right.  It made you very, very rich.”

“But we sacrificed flavour.  It’s… it’s one of the most important things about life.  I was wrong, it was wrong.  But it was too late, I’d already done too much.”

“So you ran away.  You ran here, to paradise,” she waved around her.

“Yes.”

“But you ended hunger, and at the same time made a massive impact on obesity.  The cornucopia machines make food which tastes sweet, satisfies, but doesn’t actually have any calories in it.  People don’t even have to diet to lose weight.  It’s magic.”

“Yeah, I remember the tech report.”

“That was you.  And we owe you a lot.  But unfortunately, we’re not going to kill animals for you.”

He sighed.  

“So that was the last?”

“Oh Roger, don’t sound so down.”

He said nothing, she looked at him and then laughed again.

“What?”

“I said I was here to persuade you, not crush you.  I have some good news for you.  We’ve been trialling a sort of hybrid cornucopia product.”

“A hybrid?” he asked with interest.

“Yes, I’ll have the technical details sent to you, but in summary, the machine creates the initial flesh matrix, then moves it into a second part of the machine where it is aged, but more quickly than nature.  It’s still several weeks to produce something good, but with a reasonable size of machine it wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

“Perhaps, but… I don’t want to be difficult, but I can’t imagine you’ve had gourmand testers on this.  I can assure you I’d be able to tell the difference between such a steak and this…”

He pointed at the remains of their meal.  Her smile grew.

“No… that?” he asked, incredulous.

She nodded.

“Well, one steak doesn’t prove anything… no, wait, you wouldn’t risk it on one steak.  How long?  How long has it been?”

“Two months.”

“Two months?  I’ve been eating printed steaks for two months and not even noticed.”

Instead of looking angry he looked pensive, then turned to her and said, “I need to think.”

He walked off down the beach, and she decided it was best to leave him.  Despite this unexpected response, she felt confident he’d sign the papers she’d brought, and that would be her last test before being confirmed as CEO.  She’d not thought it relevant to mention to him that she was only Acting CEO.

#

Stacy woke up to the sound of frying bacon, and an occasional waft of deliciousness.  She quickly got dressed and unzipped her one person tent, congratulating herself again on adding that to her small amount of luggage.

“What is that divine smell?” she asked brightly.  She was casually holding a sheaf of papers which she needed him to sign.

“Bacon.”

He paused and looked at her, “Printed bacon I guess?”

“Oh yes, bacon was surprisingly easy, and popular.”

He nodded, and she thought he still seemed pensive.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“No, I figured I’d get some on the plane back.”

“What?”

“I’m coming back with you.”

She stared at him, and he looked at her and said, “Look, I’ll be honest, I’ve been getting bored recently, and the meat thing was just an excuse to hide away.”

“Oh, that’s great…” she said, thinking furiously.  They’d not considered this in their strategy sessions.  He was still a major shareholder.  He might sell a chunk… that would impact the share price.  Not good.

“Yes, I’ve decided to get back into the saddle again.”

“What?” she said again, with more panic.

“Oh don’t worry, I won’t be taking your Acting CEO position away from you…” he laughed.  He’d clearly done more than just walk and think.

“Oh, um.”

“Though you and the Board are clearly in breach of our contract to deliver meat from live animals, I’m going to wave that for a few small things.”

She sighed in relief.  This was going to be fine, and she’d be confirmed.

“Yes, I want you to sign over the hybrid division to my new company.”

“What?  Um, I don’t think…”

“I’m not sure you want to argue about this,” the sudden steel in his voice reminded her that he’d been, only a couple of years before, one of the most driven CEOs in the world.

“Uh yes, well I’m sure the Board will agree…” she said rather weakly.

“Excellent.  And don’t worry, I’ll sign that bunch of waivers… once you’ve completed the transfer of the hybrid assets.”

“Great, thanks…” she said, still subdued, “What are you planning on doing?”

“I’m going to be a vigneron, a wine maker.  I’m going to print grapes, and then use the techniques you’ve developed to make great wine.  Great, repeatable wine.  After that, I think I’ll go for truffles.”

“Ah good,” she said, wondering what that would do in the long term to her company’s profitability.

“Yes, our mission is to bring true flavour back to the world!” he announced.

Looking at her frown he said, “OK, we’ll probably need a better tag line than that.  I’ll think of something…”

###

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February 15, 2024 · 14:50

AI Cassandra

Not a story… but if you like my writing (as intermittent as it is these days) then you may like my new blog, https://aicassandra.substack.com/. I’ll be writing non-fictiony stuff about AI and related topics there on a hopefully regular basis.

And I’l start to add some more stories here. I promise!

J

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May 22, 2023 · 13:02

Who’s for dinner?

This received an honourable mention for a story in the Darker Times September 2013 competition. I’m publishing it now as it’s dropped off that website.

#

Who’s for Dinner

By Jason Gibbs

The helicopter swooped over the houses at the core of the village.  They were overgrown as the forest retook its territory.  The central square was only just clear enough to allow the ‘coptor to land.  As it settled Harris heard a distinct snapping sound. 

He and Laramie climbed out of the machine, Laramie’s high heels jarringly out of place, but it didn’t stop her walking round the skeleton which had been inadvertently crushed when they landed.

Looking round Harris spotted a few more skeletons.

“What happened?”

“That’s why we’re here, dumb-ass.”  She rolled her eyes at him.

She surveyed the surroundings and then pointed at the central building, which had a large solar array on the top.  “It’ll be in there,” she said as strode towards it.

The building was of modern construction.  Printed cellulose bricks formed the walls, with the three internal rooms separated by thin plastic partitions.  The largest room, clearly a gathering and canteen area, had open entrances to the two smaller rooms, one of which was clearly a toilet.  They headed for the other, gingerly stepping over yet more skeletons.  The place was almost filled with them.

Sitting in the middle of the room, happily purring, was a cornucopia machine.  It was a basic model, only really able to print simple objects, such as the bricks, as well as food staples.  The UN had been shipping them across the planet for decades to finally defeat world hunger.

“Check the machine,” Laramie ordered, and Harris got to work while she clicked her away around the small space.

He gingerly moved aside the skeletons leaning against the machine.  In a few minutes he had the diagnostics up.

“All is perfect.  Power is 100%, even the hoppers are full, though they’ll need to be cleared out.  Last used six months ago.”

“The biological?”

“Dead, unsurprisingly.”  The biological components of the cornucopia machines tended to last only a few months, and needed their source cells replenishing.

“Any way of determining why?”

He suddenly realised that her short manner was because she was worried by the skeletons.  He had to admit that they were creepy.  Especially the one sitting on the throne next to the machine, which seemed to be looking at him.

He scrolled through the reports.  There was something odd.  Biologicals usually survived six to twelve months depending on which animal they were based on, goat based ones survived the longest, but people tended to become fed up with goat.

“The last biological died after only three days.  The one before that the same.  Before that they survive progressively longer, until we get to a normal pattern of seven month survival.”

“Damn.”

Suddenly it clicked.  The pattern was consistent with prion degradation, where the same biological source was being used to provide the base cells, and was also eating the output.  Harris looked round, and looking at the skeleton on the throne he realised what, or indeed who, that source had been.

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June 12, 2022 · 20:05

Choice on Units of Measurement: Markings and Sales

The Government of the UK has opened a consultation on the choice of units of measurement, particularly aimed at bringing back the old imperial system. I believe that this is a waste of a golden opportunity, and I have communicated this belief to the consultation. I have copied my response below, and I encourage all those right thinking people who see the benefit of my proposed New Imperial Measurement system to respond in a similar manner to the consultation. Together we can persuade them to embrace progress!

(Goverment questions in purple. My reponses in black.)

#

Choice on Units of Measurement: Markings and Sales – Response Form

Consultation Questions

1             For All,

a)            Are there any specific areas of consumer transactions that should be a priority for allowing a choice in units of measurement, and why?

b)            Are there any specific areas that you think should be excluded from a choice in units of measurement, and why?

c)            If an item is sold in imperial measures, should there be a requirement for a metric equivalent alongside it?

It is important before I complete my responses to this consultation that I set out a number a number of factors which have guided my answers.

Firstly, it is my belief that the current mixture of measures is burdensome, confusing, and reflects a failure of leadership by previous governments.  This is now an opportunity for a complete structural overhaul of the system of measurement in use in the UK.  Thus I believe that there shouldn’t be a choice, all measurements should be standardised on one new imperial system.

If we are going to level up, we should use this set of changes to iron out historical inconsistencies within the two old systems of measurement to create new efficiencies across the whole of British society.  We must carpe diem! 

I propose a new imperial system to replace all existing units, which contains the following principles from both the old imperial, and the metric systems:

1) The metric system contains a number of units based on the names of famous British scientists.  We should make these more prominent, by ensuring their (re)introduction into everyday life.  These include: Newton, Faraday, Joule, Kelvin and Watt.

2) The yard was initially set based on the average stride of a man.  The modern man can stride 9.35% further than that ancient man, and I propose that the New Imperial Yard (NIY) reflect this.

3) To help bring the metric indoctrinated into the new imperial system, it makes sense to use the kilo, centi, micro system to provide the gradations of units.  Thus centi-yards or kilo-pints will be acceptable.

Some basic measures will help explain this further.

Length – the NIY is defined as above.  The New Imperial Foot (NIF) is, to bring gender equality into the measurement system, as the average length of a modern woman’s foot.  With a slight rounding, this brings 4 NIFs to a NIY.  The New Imperial Inch (NII) has to be adjusted to take into account this size change, thus there are 5 NIIs to a NIF.  It has to be acknowledged that this has altered the ratios somewhat, but it is important that we honour the gender which has received the least recognition in prior measurement systems.

A New Imperial Mile will be set at 4 kiloNIYs to represent what the average sedentary modern person can walk in one hour.

Weight – the kilogram has incorrectly been used as a measurement of weight for many years.  The correct measurement is Newtons.  All weight should therefore be measured in Newtons, thereby giving due prominence to one of Britain’s greatest scientists.  However, to offer choice and bring the old imperial system into line, the New Imperial Pound (NILb) would be standardised as 5 Newtons.

Volume – a New Imperial Pint (NIP) should be expressed as the volume of water which weighs one NILb.  This NIP is slightly smaller than the current imperial pint, which will help reduce alcohol consumption.  Using NIPs to measure fuel would also reduce the prices at petrol stations.

A New Imperial Non-US Gallon (NING) would be 8 NIPs.  Fuel economy would simply be expressed as New Imperial Miles per NING.

Obviously these standards can and should be applied across the whole gamut of measurement, and I do not need to go into all the details here.  Nonetheless, I believe there are two other areas which need urgent attention and should, in my opinion, be brought into this consultation.

Calories are an example of the steps which need to be taken to get to an optimal system of measurement.  They were, once, perhaps useful.  But they should be abolished entirely and all measurements of energy should be in joules.  Not only will it highlight an important British scientist, but it will help ameliorate the obesity crisis, as all food energy will show higher numbers and help people make better food choices.

Temperature is another area where standardising on a single system will reduce confusion, and help to pay homage to another great British scientist.  To achieve this, use of Fahrenheit should be banned, and all temperatures must be in Kelvin.

With this clarification in place, I will answer all the questions twice.  Once in reference to the forward looking, control taking and levelling up methodology embodied in the New Imperial Measurement system (NIMS) as defined above.  The other will be in reference to the nonsensical, backward looking and more or less useless, old imperial system.

1a) NIMS – everything should be defined by the new system.  Old imperial – none.  In fact, it should be ruled out entirely as an utterly useless waste of time which fails to take the country forward.

b) NIMS – there should be no choice in units, it should all be under NIMS.  Old imperial – if there is an existing metric measure it should be used exclusively.  Continued use of the anachronistic imperial system is rather embarrassing.

c) NIMS – no, it should only be in NIMS.  Old imperial – it should only be in metric.  Having two systems in parallel borders on the ludicrous.

2             For Businesses,

What would be the consequences of your business having the freedom to sell products in imperial measures, if you wished?

               NIMS – with the new system this would make everything much easier for everybody and I would wholly support it.  Old imperial – nothing, why add additional cost for literally zero benefit.

3             For Consumers,

a)            If you had a choice, would you want to purchase items:

(i)            in imperial units?

(ii)           in imperial units alongside a metric equivalent?

b)            Are you more likely to shop from businesses that sell in imperial units?

c)            Do you foresee any costs or benefits to you from businesses being permitted to sell:

(i)            solely in imperial units?

(ii)           in imperial units alongside a less prominent metric equivalent?

d)            Do you have experience of buying solely in imperial units?

a)

i) NIMS – no choice required, everything in NIMS would be perfection.  Old imperial – I see little value in this antediluvian system, so under no circumstances can I see myself wanting to purchase items in imperial units.

ii) NIMS – only one system is needed.  Old imperial – is this the previous question rephrased?  Or is this back to the two systems at once question?  Either way, it seems somewhat pointless.  Why add the additional cost and complexity?

b) NIMS – all shops should sell in these units, so it wouldn’t change my habits.  Old imperial – I’d probably avoid shops selling in old imperial units, as it either shows that they are backward looking and incapable of adapting to the modern age, or are trying to defraud me in some way by using an outmoded and hard to understand set of units.

c)

         i) NIMS – no because the whole country would be on a single, sensible and coherent system.  Old imperial – if they’re wasting time and effort on adding such an irrelevant additional set of data on their products then they’ll either be charging me more for the privilege, or reducing quality to recoup the cost.

         ii) NIMS – no because there will be only one measure.  Old imperial – it seems odd to prioritise an arcane system, but either way this seems an inefficient option.  Additional weighing and printing costs to have two measures will absolutely add cost.  And having metric less prominently may mean I have to buy new reading glasses. 

e)            NIMS – not yet, but I hope the day will come.  Old imperial – yes.  And I’ll be honest, it never made much sense.  The biggest mistake made in the adoption of metric has been the failure to complete the job and wipe out the incongruity of the old imperial system.

4             For Trading Standards,

What potential impacts might there be on regulatory activity, including any costs or benefits?

<No answer>

###

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March 26, 2022 · 15:54

Sixth Book Published!

A few months ago, I published my sixth book via KDP Publishing. Well, the sixth book I’ve written. Well co-written. It is in fact mostly the work of my co-author, my wife Alex, but I did write the second section which contains lots of hopefully helpful advice.

The blurb:

Infertility Madness is a book about the rollercoaster that is infertility, told with brutal honesty. Principally told from Alex’s perspective; but with a separate section with Jason’s experience and advice. It is the story of their seven years of hell whilst attempting to conceive, their tour of all the infertility options the world has to offer, medical and not-so medical. Their desperate search for a child took them from New York’s finest fertility specialist to a faith healer in a Hampshire hamlet. They became fully paid up members of the IVF industry, from glitzy top London clinics offering it all but actually pedalling persuasive half-truths to more down to earth clinics which admitted the medicine behind the fertility industry hasn’t changed since the 1950s. The book focuses on the mental health toll caused by continually failing to get pregnant whilst living in a world seemingly entirely peopled with big fat pregnant women rubbing their bellies with huge smug grins across their faces. It examines the impact of infertility on what was a seemingly perfect marriage and it chronicles how, in different ways, Alex and Jason struggle to cope when everything starts to unravel but also find a path through the madness that is infertility and come out the other side.

Cover:

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July 19, 2021 · 15:47

It’s Not Me, It’s My Hind-brain

by Jason Gibbs

“Dr Myrhe?” said Stanley hesitantly, to the tall dark haired man who answered the door.

“Yes, but my friends call me Magnus, can I help you?”

“I don’t know, I have a strange request, may I come in and explain it?”

The doctor smiled a little uncertainly and then said, “Of course, please do.”

He waved him into his living room, where a large Norwegian flag was lying across the table. Stanley stopped and stared at it.

“Ah yes, I am fixing the flag, it’s become a bit tattered with all this weather we’ve been experiencing recently. Please, can I get you something to drink?”

Stanley shook his head and sat down on the edge of a chair. He looked around a little uncertainly. Magnus sat down and waited patiently.

“Um, well it’s very strange, but um, look when I woke up this morning I found myself writing on a piece of paper,” Stanley started, and paused while he reached into his pocket.

“This one, and the thing is, I don’t understand it.”

“You wrote something a bit strange? Maybe you were having a dream…?”

“No, well maybe, but it’s not that I don’t understand the words, or it is, it’s that I don’t understand the language. It looks like a Scandinavian language maybe, but, well the only thing I could understand was this bit at the bottom, where it says ‘take this sheet to Dr Myrhe’ and your address. So I’m here. Please take a look.”

Magnus was regretting letting this strange man in, but decided to humour him, and then get him out of the house as quickly as possible, so he reached across and took the sheet. He started reading it.

“Well, yes, it is Norwegian in fact, indeed…” he stopped suddenly and looked at Stanley.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Stanley shrank back a bit from the look of irritation on the man’s face. Visions of marauders from the north flashed through his mind.

“No, no, I assure you, I am as mystified as you are.”

“Hmmm,” said Magnus. He then spat out a set of Norwegian words and watched Stanley. The man just looked more confused, and considering what Magnus had just said regarding Stanley, his mother and a horse, he should be looking angry. ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ thought Magnus.

He read a bit further and then made up his mind.

“Well, yes, I think I need a bit of time. I will read this further, and think about it. Please come back tomorrow, or Monday actually, can you come to my office, I’ll give you my address.”

“But, can you explain…”

“No. I cannot. But I will find out. You may rest assured of that.”

He found a business card, gave it to Stanley and then ushered him out. He then sat down again and read the note he’d been sent.

It said:

‘Dear Dr Myrhe, Please do not translate this to Stanley. He would not be able to understand. I need your help, at least to have someone to communicate with. It’s difficult to explain, and I imagine will be hard for you to understand, I’m not sure I do, but, I am Stanley, well I am his hind-brain. I am the entity which uses the deep parts of his mind. I cannot control him, and I have to answer the questions he occasionally sends me, but otherwise, well, I’m quite bored.’

Magnus paused, and shook his head, and continued reading.

‘I learned Norwegian by watching the television. Stanley leaves it on when he goes to sleep. And from 2-4 every morning there is a free access Norwegian course. Most of the rest of the programming is a bit dull, though I know a lot about geometric optics and the husbandry required for camels. I don’t know where your name came from, Stanley must have read it but not remembered the context, so it just appeared with me one day.’

‘Dr Myrhe – will you help me? Yours sincerely, Stanley’s hind-brain.’

Magnus was intrigued, but wasn’t sure how to approach the problem. He felt he’d have to sleep on it.

#

The next day Magnus awoke to find himself writing. The piece of paper was covered in what he could only assume was arabic, at the top in his own English capitals was the name and address of a Dr Ahmed Al-Saleh. So his hind-brain wasn’t sure of the answer, and was asking someone else.

Magnus got himself ready, called in sick to work and went to see Dr Al-Saleh, who, a quick Google informed him, was a clinical psychologist.

#

(Some years later.)

“And to sum up, ladies, gentlemen… and hind-brains,” Magnus paused for the appreciative chuckles.

“To sum up, that is how we started the HBRN – the Hind Brain Research Network. I’m extremely excited that today we’ve been able to open up this wonderful, brand new building. A hotel for scientists as some have called it, but as we all know, this is also the place where a lot of deep research will be possible. I’ve booked my first holiday here to start next week, and I have high hopes of getting at least two papers out of… sharing credit of course!” he tapped the back of his head at this, to more appreciative laughs.

“Finally, I’d like to thank Stanley Lipkins, without whom this whole process might never have started.”

He clapped, and Stanley stood up, looking a little bemused and embarrassed, Magnus waved him to the mic.

Nervously he said, “Um, well I don’t think you should be thanking me. It’s not me, it’s my hind-brain…”

###

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December 16, 2020 · 16:47

Keyboards

by Jason Gibbs

“Hi, I’m Lucy, welcome to CABComms… I’ll be taking you round the office,” her tone was a little flat he thought, but perhaps she did this a lot.

“Ah thanks, I’m…”

“Dunstan, yes, I know. So let’s be going. I believe all your interviews were remote?”

Dunstan Howard nodded, slightly taken aback by the brusque nature of the woman. He thought she was pretty, in a careful low maintenance sort of way, and was wondering whether there were company rules about asking out colleagues when he realised that she had turned and was walking off at a pace. He trotted after her.

She waved to her right, “Lawyers.”

A few paces on, she waved to her left, “Accountants.”

And a little later, “Toilets.”

Every word with the same tone, as if the information was clear and equally valid. They turned a corner and she carried on at the same pace.

She stopped and turned to him, “Could you remind me, your keyboard rating was?”

“Ah, um, 98 wpm.”

She stared, nodded and said, “Basic. Yes, I recall, this way.”

He was feeling a bit bruised by her attitude, and was thinking that 98 was really rather good, certainly faster than anyone at his last place, when he was distracted by the sound of music. It was lovely, with a celestial feel.

“Ah, um, Lucy, what is that?”

She turned back to him and answered, “You should teach yourself to stop that.”

“Ah, stop what?”

“The ahs and ums. Inefficient, and you’ll need to be efficient to prosper here.”

She turned again and started to walk off.

“What is the music?”

She rounded on him, nodded and gave the hint of a smile.

“That is the top level communicators. By the sound of it they’re composing a new policy. Now, we must move.”

With this she headed along the corridor again, faster than before. As they went there were further one word descriptions, coffee, admin, supplies and suchlike. Dunstan thought he was unlikely to remember it all, and after three more turns they stopped at a door which said in big black letters “Basic”.

“This is where you will be starting. I’m sure you’ve noticed that we have done a full loop so the entrance is just there,” she said pointing to her right.

“Yes…”

“Good luck, I will see you at the end of the day to gather your feedback, now please go in.”

She was off before he could say anything. He took a breath and opened the door.

Inside the room were desks in rows of three. On the desk there was, as he expected, a large computer monitor. What he didn’t expect was the keyboard underneath it, it wasn’t qwerty, or even Dvorak. It looked rather like a piano keyboard.

He was still staring at it when an imperious voice said, “Sit.”

He did, and then looked around. At the end of the room was a woman on a slightly raised platform. She was petite, with grey hair in a tight bun, the stereotype of a perfect typist of the last century.

“You are fairly fast Mr Howard on a standard keyboard. You will be slow for a while until you have mastered this style.”

“Ah…”

She stared at him sharply, and he swore to himself he would never um or ah again.

“We do not select candidates with piano training, so do not ask. They have learned the wrong language and helping them unlearn it is painful. We used to only take those with no music training at all, but those standards have been relaxed.” It was clear what she thought of that decision.

“Look at the keys. You will see they have letters on them. Some have more than one letter, and most letters appear more than once, some, such as E and S, no less than 8 times.”

He stared down at the keyboard feeling even more at a loss than usual for the first day at a job.

“Carefully type the quick brown fox…”

He started tapping at the keys, using just two fingers. The first key caused a note to play which surprised him, though he guessed it shouldn’t have, but after looking up to see a scowl, he carried on. It was slow, and the sounds didn’t really follow, but he got to the end. He’d normally been able to type that in about three seconds.

“Not appalling. Now, use the left hand for the first word, the right hand for the next and alternate. You’ll see that the letters flow more logically than.”

He did so, and it was faster, and the sounds produced were almost a melody, like they fitted. He looked up at the screen to see that the sentence had appeared.

“Excellent Mr Howard.”

#

They carried on for the rest of the morning. He’d not been able to ask a single question, and at lunch time she’d merely said, “At 1300,” and disappeared. He’d left and found a sandwich shop, bought a sandwich, headed to the park and sat and pondered the morning. He could make neither head nor tale of it.

#

“Mr Howard, can you hear the errors?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you making them? Do you like torturing your ears?”

“No.”

“Well then, try again.”

It had been a much tougher afternoon. He was now typing more complex sentences. He’d either have a document he’d have to copy, or sometimes dictation, played out of a speaker when he clicked on the icon. At first it had been jarring hearing the words and the sounds he was typing, or should that be playing? He was used to that now, but he was still bemused.

He didn’t know what it was all about, or indeed how to consistently play, or perhaps type? Occasionally the woman, whose name he still didn’t know, would give him a hint, at other times she’d just criticise.

He tried again, using alternating hands and various of the other techniques, and it seemed like he could feel the melody as he was typing. He was starting to enjoy it when he mistyped and the dissonance stopped him short. He looked up.

She looked approvingly at him and said, “I am Miss Eagle. You are progressing very well Mr Howard, I believe you almost found the line there. Now try the next piece.”

#

At the end of that day Lucy had met him at the door, enquired politely as to his progress, nodded and wished him good night. He wondered why. Yet each morning she would greet him, and each night she’d be there to see him out. She never responded to any attempts at further conversation.

After a month of practice he’d not done anything he could identify as work. He’d also never seen anyone else in the practice room.

He was left at the door by Lucy as usual, and he entered. He looked up, expecting to continue as before, but Miss Eagle was just watching him.

“Mr Howard, what was your typing rate before you joined us?”

“Just under 100.”

“98 in fact.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what you sustained in yesterday afternoon’s session?”

“No,” he said quizzically.

“Just under 200.”

“198?” he couldn’t help himself.

There was a dead silence, and then she answered, “199.98 to be exact.”

“But… how is that possible?”

“You have passed Basic. The theory will be explained after you have passed Advanced. Tomorrow you begin Intermediate. You may take today off.”

She disappeared, and he walked out of the door even more bemused than before. Lucy was waiting, which was unexpected.

“Dunstan, you must read and sign these documents before tomorrow to continue your evolution.”

She handed him a stack of papers, smiled almost warmly, and conducted him to the door.

#

He’d started to read the documents and begun to have a nagging feeling of recognition. He was onto his third page before he realised he’d typed them, and then, suddenly, he just knew the whole document, what it meant and what it meant for him. It was a switch, a sharp refocussing of knowledge.

He also realised it was a good deal for him, more money and benefits, so he signed happily.

If he’d expected Intermediate to be different he was somewhat disappointed. Lucy led him to the same door, and Miss Eagle waited for him. The sessions were similar, though tougher. The dictation was faster, he sometimes had to copy from scraps of paper, and on a couple of occasions had to type up recorded conversations.

Now and again he’d get flashes of knowledge from what he’d written, but not in the same way as that contract. He didn’t know why. But he wanted to know.

The end of Intermediate was similar to Basic. His typing speed was now up to 300, which was unreal, and he could follow multiple lines at once. Miss Eagle even expressed mild approval.

Once again Lucy presented him with a pile of documents, and a real smile this time.

“Dunstan, you are progressing well,” she said. He thought she looked very pretty when she smiled.

“Lucy…”

“You will need to pass Advanced,” was her curt reply, even before he let the question out, but he could see that she was just communicating the rules, and it was not a personal rejection.

He read the document, and before the third sentence the knowledge had refocussed sharply. He now understood the process, and he signed the contract.

#

“Today we start on dissonance,” said Miss Eagle.

For the very first time she was sitting down, at a terminal like his own.

“Let us begin.”

She started typing, and music flowed. He clicked on his typing source file, and voices started and he commenced typing.

At first their lines inter-weaved and the music was pretty, beautiful even, and then, it started to clash. Just a note here and there at first, and then worse and worse. He forced myself to keep going but after only a few minutes he stopped, panting with the effort.

“Good Mr Howard, but you must focus. Hold yourself above the music and you will be able to continue for longer, you have allowed yourself to fall into the lines themselves.”

She was right, and over the next few days he was able to build up his tolerance until he could play with, or perhaps against, her for an hour without needing to stop.

“Excellent. And now true harmony,” she announced one day.

This was different. He had thought it would be a relief, but if anything it was harder. Holding the harmony with hers for long minutes. While dissonance was easy to hold at bay it was tempting to fall into the harmony, and if he did then it collapsed and he would receive a sharp rebuke from Miss Eagle.

“Mr Howard, that instrument is one of pleasure. Do not abuse it.”

He concentrated and improved, and one day while in mid-harmony he came to understand what it was that they were writing, he could actually understand her part too. It was perfect communication, and he began to vary it, and she did too, responding to him. It was like magic.

“Why Mr Howard, it has been some years since I’ve enjoyed a practice that much. Excellent. I believe you will be ready to pass soon.”

Soon was still another three weeks, the harmonies became more complex, and more beguiling, and then he had mixed harmonies and dissonance, and dissonant harmonies. She called these ‘Synthesis’, but he often didn’t know which of them was leading the Thesis.

Then suddenly, “Mr Howard, congratulations, you have passed. You may take a week’s holiday, and then you will be starting work.”

She walked over and shook his hand. She was petite but very strong, and there was a twinkle in her eye.

He left, and once again Lucy was waiting for him.

“Here are your documents. You may take me for coffee.”

They went for a nice coffee. She refused to talk about work, but that wasn’t a problem.

#

He took the week off to relax, signed the contract and went back to work.

Lucy met him and for the first time in months they did not walk to Miss Eagle’s room, instead they went the other direction, to where he’d heard that music on the first day. As they walked she said nothing, and he listened. He could hear documents in the air, and could pick out bits of the words, of the meanings.

“It is probably best that you don’t listen like that too much, it can sometimes be painful,” said Lucy.

He shot her a guilty look and she smiled, “Don’t worry, we all do it sometimes, but it’s just… well, if you get caught by a bad dissonance, it can be jarring.”

They walked on a little further, “This is us.”

She was pointing at an office with two desks in it.

“Us?”

“Yes. We have been paired.”

“Ah, is that good?”

She gave him a withering look, and sat down at her desk, and started to play.

She was using music.

“What?”

He did, and she played.

There was a playful a note in her response.

She continued with a more serious note.

She smiled at him, and her music smiled too.

He smiled, as did the harmony he wove with her. He was way beyond words per minute, he was now able to communicate perfectly whenever he wished, and he would be able to help others do so too.

###

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