DECIDED to keep a diary celebrating my life as a technohack. Last week was
all too typical. . .
Monday Roman Kuc, a professor at Yale University, has built a robot
that explores environments by ultrasonic echolocation. Students of philosophy
will see the significance. Here鈥檚 a chance to build a model and answer that
classic question: 鈥淲hat it is like to be a bat?鈥�
As a true child of empiricism, I resolve to build my own robot bat. First
stop is a trendy Soho club, where Tandy, the radio shack group, is launching its
new catalogue. The PR person does not seem to share my enthusiasm for electronic
creatures. But she does hand me a strong drink and an electronic version of the
game Battleships. Next thing I know, it鈥檚 midnight.
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Tuesday Distracted from the bat project by my job as commissioning
editor of a new, ground-breaking technology magazine, provisionally titled
Whoarr! Wouldn鈥檛 mind a go on that! I must console myself by fitting new
handlebar extensions to my mountain bike. Note with satisfaction that these are
now the longest on the bike rack. Evolutionary biologists will draw their
conclusions.
Wednesday Up the British Telecom Tower in the heart of London to
launch my latest book, a searing romance of life, death and electronic medical
records. Healthsmart 2010 is a fictional vision of the National Health
Service in the Internet age鈥攚hich for the NHS will arrive around 2010.
Some 180 metres above the busy streets of London, the world鈥檚 press quizzes
me on the book鈥檚 contents. The British Medical Journal wants to know if
computers will exacerbate the gap between the rich and poor. The man from
Loaded wants to know what the name of the model on the front cover is.
Thursday Up early to see if the reviewers have been kind. (鈥淥ffers a
bright future, but for whom?鈥� The Independent.) Not much else except
the usual press releases and invitations to take out exotic credit cards.
Platinum cards are now old hat and kids no doubt get Gold for pocket money. I鈥檓
almost tempted by the Isaac Newton Philosopher鈥檚 Stone card, offering unlimited
wealth plus eternal life at 6.9 per cent. But I decide there鈥檚 probably a
catch.
Friday A further setback to the bat project. My two-year-old laptop
computer chooses to die in an exceptionally unhelpful fashion. Minutes before a
crucial deadline, the 鈥渟ave to floppy disc鈥� function rejects all file names. As
the modem has never worked properly, this means an entire day鈥檚 work is trapped
in the machine. I wonder at the ingenuity of the disgruntled microserf who
programmed in such an infuriating bug. My editor watches with gritted teeth as I
retype my article from the laptop screen into the office system. It is not good
for the nerves, but I derive some satisfaction by binning the useless
laptop.
Saturday Off to the shrine of the unknown Mac Plus, to renounce my
dalliance with Wintel technology. I then set out to buy a laptop of the true
faith. London, of course, is full of computer shops. But I am hit by a
revelation: few of them must ever sell a computer. Some give the impression that
they are fronts for global shady syndicates, probably involving svelte Eastern
temptresses and recycled National Lottery scratch cards. At such shops, the
dialogue goes something like this: 鈥淕ood morning. Do you have the new PowerBook
1400鈥攋ust the basic 133-megahertz processor, passive matrix screen, 24
megabytes of RAM, and a CD-ROM drive? Oh, and I鈥檒l need a built-in modem, the
fastest you鈥檝e got, and a 12-volt adapter, too.鈥�
鈥淵es, sir.鈥�
鈥淭hen, pray, hand one to me and I will pass you my Gold card.鈥�
A look of panic crosses his face.
鈥淎h. We haven鈥檛 got one here, now.鈥�
鈥淭his is a computer shop, isn鈥檛 it?鈥�
鈥淥h yes, sir. Definitely.鈥�
After the fourth store has tried to persuade me that what I really want is a
Taiwanese electronic typewriter running its very own operating system, I give up
and fall into 鈥淭he Museum Tavern鈥�. Bump into an old colleague, now scraping
together a living as science correspondent for a national rag. He鈥檚 just spent
eight hours covering the last day of the old British Library Reading Room, once
the haunt of Karl Marx and George Bernard Shaw. With the assistance of several
fine pints, we lament the passing of the age of letters.
Sorry, never got round to that bat.