A short journey in incomprehension.
As normal I will begin by saying, absolutely none of this is true, apart from the bits which are.
I don’t know. It was a tricky theme this month. And some people can have a clear goal in mind.
Comedians have a fairly easy measure of success. Make the audience laugh out loud. Job done.
Horror: you want to make people gasp and cringe. Artistic writers, make people think you’re very clever.
But, me? I don’t know what to aim for. They call me indecisive, but I don’t know.
So, please, do whatever comes naturally. Scratch your head, raise an eyebrow or curl a toe. Do whatever you feel like.
I was originally thinking of trying to do something with the fact it sounds a bit like, “I don’t, no.” As in: I don’t comma N O.
So I worked on that idea.
Scenario one: Picture the scene, a man and a woman are on a railway platform.
“Excuse me, do you know if the next train to Liverpool Street goes from this platform?”
“Sorry, I don’t know.”
“Ok, thanks anyway.”
And now, let’s run that scene again in the second variation.
“Excuse me, do you know if the next train to Liverpool Street goes from this platform?”
“Sorry, I don’t, no.”
“Ok, thanks anyway.”
You see, they’re just too similar to make anything out of. It’s no hilarious million-copy selling eats shoots and leaves punctuation situation.
“I don’t know,” I thought. “I’ll call a therapist.”
I would call my therapist, left to my own devices–I’ve been seeing her for eight years now–but she’s told me I need to deal with my attachment issues. So “a therapist” it is, sometimes the therapist, but never my.
Anyway, I went to a therapist who is not mine but I have seen once a month for eight years or so and lay on a couch nearby her. The clock ticked and the session started.
“What’s bothering you?” she asked, right on the dot.
“I didn’t realise you would be the therapist I saw today,” I lied.
“That’s good, Mr Cain, I see we’re making progress,” she said with some satisfaction, despite knowing I was clearly lying.
“We, who’s this we?” I said, hoping to catch her out. She ignored it.
“So, what’s bothering you?”
“I don’t know. I thought you might tell me.” I said.
“Ok, well you’ve booked an hour so you might as well talk about something. Then I’ve got something to work with.”
And so I told her about my online post job-interview AI assessment from earlier in the week.
“Thank you for coming at such short notice. I see you are wearing the sensors we issued,” the interviewer in the Zoom video conference said. “Heart rate 120. Blood pressure, steady, if a little elevated, but quite normal in a pressured situation.”
“Yes, I’m a little tense to be honest. Could you please tell me what this interview is for? I was told I got the job, but then got told there’s this AI assessment.”
“Yes, it’s just one final check to make sure you are human. We’ve had a lot of bot applicants recently. Some of them were very good indeed. They were so good they got the job and several promotions afterwards. It was quite an embarrassment for the department.”
“Well I can assure you I’m human. At least I was human the last time I checked.”
“I am quite sure you are, Mr Cain. Quite sure. Please don’t take it personally. It’s just a formality. So, now, if you’re sitting comfortably please just swallow the capsule and watch the screen. You’ll come round in half an hour.”
And it was a blur and I saw all kinds of images and sounds: pop stars, politicians, film clips, music and pictures of me, friends, exes, and family. All of this while they were monitoring my vital signs.
“So what was the result?” a therapist sitting next to me asked, interrupting me before I was finished.
“What was the result of the test you mean?”
“Yes, the result of the test? If it’s not too personal.”
“It was inconclusive.”
“You mean they couldn’t tell if you were human or AI?”
“No, inconclusive, the test didn’t work out. I have to travel down there with my passport.”
“Jesus, so is that what’s bothering you then?”
“No, not particularly, I was just telling you a story to fill the time.”
“I don’t know. I think, perhaps, it should be worrying you,” she said.
“As a therapist are you supposed to be suggesting more things for me to worry about?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
Sometimes I doubted her credentials.
And my hour was up and all I had was one more problem.
“Same time, same place next month?” I asked.
“Ah, yes, about that. You know how I always talk to you about your attachment issues?”
“Yes, I do. I have been addressing them.”
“Well I have noticed. Only, the thing is, I am sorry to say I’m going to have to drop you as a patient.”
For all my acceptance of my attachment issue I was shocked. It had been eight years.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t know either.”
I was her last patient, so we left together. We walked to the train station as regular people rather than a therapist and patient. She told me she was going to ditch head therapy for a new thing called “sickness therapy”.
Apparently people on the internet are paying good money to catch illnesses like flu, colds, diarrhoea and the lighter strains of covid as a kind of meditation retreat. It also provides them with great human interest social media content.
She couldn’t miss out on joining the Sick Therapy franchise on what she called “the ground level”. I told her it sounded amazing and that I hoped it went viral.
Despite my lack of attachment issues I didn’t want to lose touch, so I made an appointment. I will start a trial course of light head colds and sniffles over the winter. She will mentor me through it.
“You don’t have attachment issues do you?” she said on the railway platform.
“I don’t, no.”
“Was that ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I don’t, no.’”
“I don’t know,” I said.
I laughed and then I realised she wasn’t laughing so I stopped.
Then we both scratched our heads and she caught her train to Liverpool Street. I began to feel a tightness in my chest, perhaps the bronchitis I had opted for in my new course of treatment. ■
