A pig, in a cage, on antibiotics

I remember “Way down” being on Totp. I was never a massive Elvis fan but this one must have moved my eleven year old self, because I taped it off the top 40. My gran passed the comment “oh, he must have recorded this before he died”. The sarcasm was palpable from the old fella, but my thought was about how old people perceive time. Maybe things aren’t linear for an eighty one year old woman, maybe she understood string theory or quantum mechanics? None of these things actually occurred to me at the time, I just thought it was a very odd thing to say. But, in a household where my mother tried for weeks to clean a shadow off the bathroom sink, I didn’t over think it. It did stick in my mind though, and I came to the conclusion it was just a woman who was born when Victoria was on the throne, trying to come to terms with a very confusing modern world. This made me ponder what my Elvis comment would be.

It may have something to do with these machines you get in your home that talk to you. You can ask them for cat food, or to dim your lights… I don’t have a cat, and good luck dimming the lights, if you look at these new style bulbs askew they fucking blow. This made me wonder what it could actually do for us. Our fridge isn’t connected to the internet, nor is our central heating. I can’t fucking abide the radio, and I’m not sure what else it can do… apart from report back all our habits to a company that will sell the info to a direct advertising company. TV adverts will be different for everyone in years to come, tailored to your last conversation… yeah, the one where you slag off half your family, berate certain friends for the crap wine they brought round, then have a conversation that would probably see you in court for slander and breaching at least five protected characteristics.

I think, for now, we’ll stick to getting off our arses to switch the lights off, going to the shop with a list and not having the radio on. That way we can talk about what we like and you’ll never know.

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