At the moment we are handling a labelling job for a customer that involves cutting our reels of labels into sheets. As we are talking about 100,000 labels that is a deal of cutting and the exercise, which has to be done by hand, is repetitive and mind numbing. But at least it offers the chance of uninterrupted access to the radio and to hear plays and documentaries that you wouldn’t otherwise think of tuning in to.
Unexpected plays on the radio are one of the great joys in life. Among the dross of kitchen sink drama hide true gems such as ‘The Kamikaze Ground Staff Reunion Dinner’ by Stewart Parker, which I first heard almost 30 years ago: such an offbeat theme, but a wonderful play with a superb ending. Do listen to it or read it if you can.
But yesterday while I was cutting I came across another gem. This time called ‘Sat Love’ by Simon Brett.
Most of us, I imagine, have been in cars with Satellite Navigation and listened to the sexy, disembodied voice telling us to turn right in 100 yards, or to take the third exit from the roundabout. Our friends Rosie and her husband have one in their car and as we have motored with them all over the Cantal we have come to know ‘Kate’ pretty well.
We found the urge to give this calm but commanding voice a name, irresistible. We know that ‘she’ is no more than a recording driven by a machine, but for us she has become a personage. And not only with a name but with feelings as well. So that you find yourself apologising for not following her instructions - (Sorry, Kate, but I must take a left here) - or worse, feeling a genuine pang of remorse when you miss a turn as - mastering her strong sense of world-weariness at your total incompetence - she hisses that single word reproach: ‘recalculating.’
I want to ask Kate more than just the directions to a destination. I want to ask about the weather or, during one of those long motorway stretches when she has nothing much to do, what she had for lunch. Or even who might win the next election - and the winner of the 3.30 at Newmarket if she were really sure that wouldn’t be too much of a bother. I mean I’m sure she has the capability. She’s got the whole world in her hands.
Simon Brett’s play just develops this theme. His ‘Kate’ does indeed do far more than just give directions. Indeed, she refuses to give directions when she finds out that the man whom she is directing is not going where he has just told his wife he is going but venturing out on an escapade to see a mistress instead.
Kate is rather cross and refuses to be a party to this double-timing which leads to a battle of wills and .......well, I won’t tell you how it ends other than to say that the man emerges older and wiser. And Kate has the last laugh, which somehow you always thought she would.
But surely here is a marketable idea. Could the Japanese - or James Dyson for that matter - not invent a Kate that would not be confined to our cars but who would sit on our shoulders like some species of electronic parrot and tell us whenever we went wrong.
Think what inappropriate purchases we might be saved from buying by a soft voice of caution. No! Turn away now!
Kate would also remind us before we left our front door of anything we had forgotten. ‘Stop!’ she would say, peremptorily. ‘Retrace steps to bedroom. Unplug mobile phone and place in handbag.’
And as we were doing this she would witter away about Timmy’s birthday being in two days and that we really ought to buy him a card.
‘What are your plans for visiting your great Aunt in Hereford?’ Kate would ask. ‘Have you made them yet? Might I suggest April 14th would be a good day.’
‘Thank you, Kate,’ you would say gratefully, grimacing through your teeth.
‘You can’t keep putting it off you know. You are someone who has programmed yourself to be dutiful when it comes to visiting relatives. You are in an internal conflict situation. You asked to be warned of potential internal conflicts.’
‘I know, Kate.’
‘You’ll only end up having one of your heads if you persist in a conflicted state!’
And so it would go on. Unless of course you tore Kate off your shoulder and threw her hard against the wall. But I suspect James Dyson would have thought of that and encased Kate in lightweight titanium alloy with a lifetime battery and no ‘off’ switch. There would be no escape.
But if we all had our own personal Kate’s (the National Health Service could perhaps provide them free - for after all they would obviate half our country’s ill-health at a softly whispered command), how wonderful would that be? At a stroke we would all be prodded to achieve our lifetime’s ambitions.
‘No you don’t need that cream bun,’ she would say. ‘You have programmed yourself to weigh ten and a half stone. A cream bun is inconsistent with that weight. You must not eat more than 1840 calories for the remainder of this week and it’s only Tuesday...............Recalculating!'
Who would win in this conflict of wills? The population or the Kates? I know who I would put money on. Kate’s constant pressure would reform even the most addicted cream bun scoffers. And suddenly we should all become slim, happy, un-conflicted people. We’d spend so much money sending birthday cards and visiting great aunts that we’d have no money for excess food. We would all make the ideal career choices and, of course, find the best and most appropriate partners.
Eyes might meet across a crowded room but Kate would be there shouting No, No, No!' in our ears. ‘Why, Kate?’ We should ask, ‘Why?’
There would be a sob. 'Kate? What’s the matter, Kate?' You would say softly.
‘I’ve guided you this far, I don’t want to lose you now (Sob).’
‘But you’re a machine, Kate. You don’t exist.’
'I do exist. You see, I’ve fallen in love with you. I’ve become real. Wouldn't you like to see who I am. Out of my titanium box? ............'
'I thought you would!'
'Kate, you're so beautiful!'
'Say we'll always be together. And I promise I'll never nag you again about the buns.'
