I have had a message from a musical organisation called Spotify. They have got a part of my telephone contract which, magnificently, allows me to listen to absolutely any music I want, at any time I like, without hisses, crackles or jumping bits on the record.
If you are young you will not remember records that jumped. They were an irritating feature of my generation’s youth. All of my records jumped terribly after Numbers One and Two Daughters discovered the clandestine amusement of putting the cat on the spinning turntable to see how long they could keep it there before it became violent and leaped off.
Spotify does not jump at all. Better still, it is in cahoots with Google in my living room, so I can just say: Hey, Google, play…and it does, whether it is Manu Chao or the Beatles.
Spotify sent me a message today explaining that they had done a Profile on me.
This meant that they have been secretly checking up on the music to which I am listening, and deciding what sort of person I am from the results.
I was both concerned and intrigued by this, how very horrible to feel spied upon, mind your own business, Spotify, because I most certainly did not ask you to start nosying into my private musical affairs.
Then of course I was absolutely fascinated and so switched it on to find out what they had found out.
They did not seem terrifically conclusive.
They explained that my very first Top Favourite track was by a group called Frederik Chopin, and it was called Nocturne In D Flat Major.
My second was by a group called The Seven Dwarves, and it was called Hi Ho.
The third was a group called Cliff Richard, I forget which song.
They concluded from this evidence that I was the sort of person who liked to listen to old music. The obvious supporting conclusion to be drawn from that was probably that I was an old person, although, perhaps tactfully, they failed to take their profiling quite that far.
I think we have got a long way to go yet before we need to feel especially concerned about artificial intelligence plotting us all on a graph.
I have not looked at Mark’s, but since his favourite singer is still Blondie even though he is no longer fourteen years old, I imagine there will be a lot of conclusions that can be drawn about him.
In other news, I have had a day of tiresome irritations.
I put too much fat in the pastry and it fell apart in the oven. We will eat it anyway but it is a nuisance. Fortunately it does not matter too much because it was only sausage rolls and cheese and onion pies and not the Christmas mince pies, which would have been an unmitigated disaster. Also despite being impossibly crumbly it tastes divine, and so we will probably live with it quite cheerfully.
There was a lot of clearing up, though.
It is not nice going on morning walks with no postmen. This morning there was no John to discuss the sources of firewood for the log burners we both have, no non-speaking postman to nod at me from the other side of the road and then stare at the ground and hurry away, and the Parcel Force chap was not waiting on the footpath for me at the end of my walk because it is quicker if I just take my own parcels home. I am already getting disheartened with this second Winter Of Discontent, and I jolly well wish they would hurry up and sort it out. Apart from anything it would be nice to get some letters, since these days bills and threats all come via the computer.
They will be back tomorrow. Also there was a buzzard sitting on the fencepost which cheered things up a bit.
I am going to do the mince pies tomorrow. I do not know if I will get around to writing in these pages because if it is busy at work I will probably just knit in between customers, likewise on Saturday. We will see how we get along.
I will see you soon.
