Hmmm.... well actually Rosemary,
...when I referred to your being real, I was actually attempting to humour you - I know how you artificial life-forms like to think you have us real folk fooled! I remember reading about you in an old, yet immaculate, issue of "New Scientist" that I discovered, lying neglected beneath a pile of much-thumbed copies of "Loaded", ?Heat? and "Reader's Digest", on my dentist's waiting-room table. Fortunately for me, the receptionist who?d been watching me for some time, struggling to extract it with a minute pair of tweezers, sensed my frustration and generously offered me a pair of latex gloves?. I don't remember the article mentioning any Phd student though. As I recall, weren't you the creation of a rather gifted car mechanic ....No. My mistake! It was a roofer wasn't it? Amazing chain of events when you think about it -
The roofer was approached to carry out a few mundane repairs to one of the turrets at Castell Coch*. He turned up with his little lorry, loaded up with scaffolding only to discover that, even though it is a victorian folly, it was built on the site where an actual castle once stood and, because of this, the caretaker insisted that he used replica mediaeval scaffolding instead. It was a little rickety by comparison but seemed to hold up well enough and, after a while, the eerie creaking sounds of the wind lightly jostling the tethered poles and the rubbery squelch of the weasel guts binding it together, ceased to bother him. He did, however, draw the line at forsaking his hard hat for something that resembled a leather bucket. A compromise was reached and the roofer reluctantly traded in his hat for a helmet which dated back to the time of the crusades and had, for many centuries after, been misused as a strainer for boiled cabbage. He put it on and, feeling slightly ridiculous, started a long and laborious ascent up a series of 'ye olde' ladders, until, finally, he reached the turret roof (Phew!...or rather Phoo! since the odour of several hundred years? worth of boiled cabbage had imparted something of a whiff on the inside of the helmet?). Surveying the condition of the tiles the roofer noted that, in fact, only a few areas were in need of attention - which meant less time spent atop the gently-swaying structure.
While he set to work, the roofer also took time to enjoy the unspoilt vista of wilderness and motorway. Even though there was a slight chill to the breeze, the sun shone down upon the castle, shrouding him with its warmth and sending its dazzling rays bouncing off his antiquated headgear. The shafts of light pierced the darkness of the surrounding woodland with their brilliance, startling small, furry creatures and causing them to scurry deeper into the undergrowth??
??which reminds me, isn?t it coming up to that time of year when the NS crew head off to the park??..
?.. as the roofer?s helmet sent strobes of sunlight high into dusky foliage of the trees themselves, large, ungainly forms, darker than a moonless sky, darker even than (dare I say?) Mr. Sawhney?s Darth Vader outfit, began to shuffle and stir?. As an intelligent life-form, artificial or otherwise Rosemary, you don?t have to be Bill Oddie to know that all members of the crow family are reputedly attracted to shiny objects, and the roofer?s helmet was very shiny and therefore, too irresistible an object for the feathered inhabitants of the surrounding woodland to ignore. A single, intrepid jay landed, feather-light, on the tip of the turret and eyed the roofer?s head. No sooner had it caught the roofer?s attention than it flew up again and alighted upon his helmet. After enduring several minutes of delicate scratching and tapping sounds from above, the roofer called out. The jay, failing to gain a secure enough purchase on the large, shiny thing, let alone fly off with it, gave up and retreated back to the woods. Next, a solitary magpie settled on the roof briefly before it too attempted to remove the big shiny object. The roofer, somewhat perplexed by the scraping and hammering sounds, raining down on his vintage headwear, cursed as he recalled the old saying ?One for sorrow?..? . Traditionally, it followed that two magpies were ?for joy? but, not on this occasion! Joined by its mate, the determined pair scrabbled about, pounding away relentlessly at the helmet, before eventually growing too weary to continue. The magpies flew off mournfully, leaving the roofer somewhat dazed and traumatised but helmet still in place?.. After several minutes and hearing not so much as a dickybird, the roofer felt recovered enough to continue with his task. Feeling once again at peace with his surroundings, he did not notice the soft but ominous chorus punctuating the relative silence of the woodlands ?? Caw?. Caw?.. Caw?..
??. Mr. Sawhney, although modesty prevents him from admitting it, is certainly no stranger to this sound; before every live performance, the very same sound rises up from the adoring crowd pressed against the stage, while the poor man edges nervously towards his stool??
??..fear not, Rosemary (et al), I WILL get to the point of this story sometime before Christmas?.
??Caw?. Caw?. Caw?. Caw?. The sound grew louder and more urgent. Suddenly aware of the encroaching din, the roofer looked up and about him. The sky was dark with startling, malevolent silhouettes. The inhabitants of several neighbouring rookeries had left the cosiness of their nests, and were winging their way from all directions, each of them irresistibly drawn towards, and determined to claim, the big shiny object for themselves! Swiftly the roofer ran towards the nearest olde-worlde ladder as fast as his wobbly legs could take him. Alas the design upon which the replica mediaeval scaffolding had been based, was not meant to withstand the degree of jolting and shuddering caused by a stampeding roofer and promptly began to collapse. Even as the roofer continued to tread air all the way down to the courtyard, several, fearless rooks lunged down, wind screaming through their wings, until the pluckiest of them all stretched out its legs, hooked its talons into the grill before the roofer?s bulging eyes and succeeded in yanking the big, shiny thing free from the roofer?s head, moments before his still-running feet met the cobbles?.
Amazingly, although a little shorter than before, the roofer suffered no other visible damage. Too terrified to set foot on so much as a footstool, he sold his business, moved into a bungalow and pondered over his future career prospects. Around about the same time, he began to experience some pretty unusual dreams?.. little had he realised, but the constant vibration caused by the incessant drilling of bird beaks had effectively woken up a hitherto dormant corner of his brain. It was this additional neural activity which was the cause of the dreams and, while he slumbered, his mind toyed with impossible notions, including the development of artificial intelligence?.
?.Yes, Rosemary, I am FINALLY heading towards the point of this story afterall!!!...
?.. Originally, he had hoped to create an artificial brain, designed specifically to occupy those empty spaces between politicians? ears. Although there exists a few exceptions to the norm, there were certainly many who would ultimately benefit from such implants for politicians ?.. the entire population, for example?. However, empty heads are notoriously suspicious of anything and everything and the roofer feared that he was more liable to be shot on sight rather than have his amazing idea taken seriously. Undeterred, he simultaneously dreamt up and created another, far superior version of the artificial brain and went on to construct a ?body? in which to install it. He gave the new life-form, which had the
mind of a super-genius and was
built like an absolute goddess (you can slip me the tenner for that comment when I see you in December! ?.Rosemary, that is?.), two purposes in life?
1/ To listen to as much music as possible ? even (although he later regretted this) Europop.
2/ To give really useful careers advice to all who needed it!
And now, here you are, applying your superbrain to the task of writing unadulterated nonsense on Mr. Sawhney?s forum! If you think that I?m not going to be able to spot you at the Jazz Caf?, think again, little Miss Cleverclogs ? I?ve seen the photo remember ? how hard could it be for me to spot someone with a large, white brolly protruding from the side of her head???
* http://www.castlewales.com/coch.html