Marmite

In one respect, Musk isn’t a very good businessman. He’s haemorrhaging members from X (formally Twitter), including The Guardian , Clifton Suspension Bridge and Elton John. Hmmm. Maybe Musk knows what he’s doing after all. Who wants to be associated with a sealed echo chamber, a brainless entity, and an irrelevant has-been?

It’s well documented that I’m a technophobe. I clung on to my retro-Nokia until it literally fell apart in my hand; I think the cloud is a fluffy white thing in the sky; a Trojan Horse is something do with ancient Greece; a virus isn’t cured with antibiotics; and Power Point is a sports drink. My first fortnight as a mature student was therefore a nightmare. At one point I said to one of my supervisors, “I did not register for a PhD in IT!” The first thing I had to overcome was accessing my student email account. The nice little man loaded the required software and set up the required protocols, whatever they are, patted me on the head and told me I was all set. But he hadn’t actually told me how to access the account.  Once that was sorted, I couldn’t get onto the university wi-fi, even though it had worked fine the previous day. Instead I had to rely on the fluffy white thing, which was slow and unstable. I eventually found an FAQ on the IT help site: “After you change your email...

It’s no secret that I don’t like technology, and technology doesn’t like me. What the hell is ChatGBT? My first ever blog (per the old regime that’s now invisible) was about me being a technophobe, and it’s been downhill ever since. Take last Tuesday, for example. Hubby locked himself in the bathroom when I went to put Marmite on my toast and found that the jar was empty. My weekly shop wasn’t due for another nine days. Marmite-less toast is one of life’s oxymorons; a straw that breaks the camel’s back; a round peg in a square hole; a red rag to a blue cravat; tonic without gin.