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| Grrr... |
My mobile and I have a vexed relationship. It's right on the edge of irreconcilable differences and divorce. Our needs are so different.
I want something to make phone calls and send the occasional text for me. It has much grander plans. It nags me constantly about updated accounts, fresh ways to link to my friends, demands that I use all its gadgets. Frankly, it's a bit needy.
All of that is bearable. Where our relationship really breaks down is over sending texts. It thinks it knows me better than I know myself. I have news for my phone. It does not.
Take, for example, the little matter of Northallerton. This charming market town emerges from my phone's predictive text mechanism as Mortgakleston. Sondheim appears as Some hens. School becomes scowl. Winter turns to water. Partridge in a pear tree became partridge in a rear tripe. Grudging props for getting partridge right I suppose.
I'm aware that I need to spell out the words for the phone. It can't be expected to know these things without some input from me. However, even after the relevant words have been carefully given to the beast it remains smugly convinced that it knows better.
Carrier pigeons anyone?
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