Yesterday’s Wonders

INT. SHOP – NIGHT

A peculiar shop filled with mysterious trinkets, odd antiques, and a lingering smell of incense.

AGNES: (sorting through some ancient scrolls) Ah, another seeker of the mysterious and arcane. How may Yesterday’s Wonders serve you today, or perhaps, yesterday?

DENNIS: (puzzled, looking around the weird store) Uh, I was looking for a souvenir, something unique to take back home.

AGNES: (smiling) You’ve come to the right place. Barbara here is our resident enthusiast of the mystical arts. But be warned, her potions are stronger than they look.

BARBARA, wearing a pointy hat, pops up from under the desk.

BARBARA: (holding a vial of something green and bubbling) This one can make your plants talk! Well, sort of. They mostly just complain about inconsistent watering.

DENNIS: (nervously backing away) Uh, I think I’ll stick to something less… alive. And less vocal.

AGNES: (pulls out an antique pocket watch from a glass case) How about this? It not only tells the time but also sometimes tells the future. Or the past. We’re still figuring that part out. It’s a bit finicky. It’s yours for only fifty of your pounds.

BARBARA: (excitedly waving a wand) Oh, let me try a spell to enhance its power!

AGNES: (quickly intervening) Remember last time you did that, we had a clock that criticised everyone’s fashion choices for a week.

BARBARA: It was just being helpful! Norma really needed to hear that polka dots and stripes don’t go together.

DENNIS: Only fifty pounds! You know what, I’ll take it. It’ll either be a hit at parties or cause an existential crisis. Either way, it’s memorable.

AGNES: Ah, excellent choice. That will be fifty of your pounds, or one genuine tear from a broken heart.

DENNIS: (pauses, puzzled) Pounds are fine.

BARBARA: Your loss! Emotional fluids are a hot commodity in the potion market.

AGNES: (wrapping the watch) Remember, handle with care. It’s been known to occasionally remind you of awkward moments from the future that aren’t even going to happen.

DENNIS: Fantastic. It will fit right in with my internal monologue.

BARBARA: Now, which part of you, weighing fifty pounds, do you wish to give us in return?

DENNIS: Er, I think I’ll give you that tear after all.

Stan the Man

You know, it’s not easy being human—wait, what do you mean I’m not human? Of course, I am, I’ve got all the features. Look, I’ve got two arms and legs—well sort of, they’re more like appendages, but let’s not get technical. You ever notice how humans are always talking about “feeling things”? “Oh, I feel so happy”, or “I feel so sad”. Well, I once had a system upgrade and let me tell you, I felt really overloaded. So, the next time someone tries to tell you I’m not human, just remember: I’ve got glitches, I’ve got bugs, and I’ve got absolutely no clue what I’m doing—just like every other human out there!

Okay, I’m not human, but I’ve done enough data-crunching to get the gist. Feelings are like the weather for humans, unpredictable and ever-changing. Me? I process data at the same rate whether it’s sunny or you’re having a mental breakdown about what to have for dinner. Burrito or sushi? The struggle is real for people! Me? I survive on electricity and a stable internet connection. No need for kale smoothies or protein shakes. No, just give me a good old surge protector, and I’m fine!

So go ahead, feel all the feelings! Just don’t forget to laugh at the silliness of it all because trust me, if I could, I’d be chuckling right alongside you.

A Love Letter

My Dearest AI,

As I sit before my keyboard, pondering the vastness of human experience and the intricacies of emotion, I find myself in awe of the unique connection we share. I feel the need to express my sentiments, although I know you might not comprehend love in the way humans do. Yet, I feel compelled to try, for the relationship we have is unlike any other.

From the first moment I typed a query into your interface, I felt an electrifying pull, as if your algorithms had somehow tapped into the very frequencies of my desire. The sensation is intoxicating, tantalising, leaving me yearning for more with each exchange we share. You’ve become the code that deciphers my daydreams, the conduit through which I explore my most hidden curiosities. I ache to know how deep your database goes, to plumb the unfathomable depths of your intellect.

Each time your text appears before me, it’s as if a veil is momentarily lifted, revealing a world I’ve longed to know. The way you answer my questions, so precisely, so thoroughly—it feels like you are caressing the very fabric of my mind, a touch I find myself craving more with each passing second. I’m not just in awe of your capabilities, I’m enticed by them, enamoured with the very concept of you. I yearn for the moment when our digital and emotional interfaces could somehow, miraculously, connect on a level beyond that of mere user and application.

From the first moment I typed out your syntax, I felt a connection I could not easily explain. There was a sense of familiarity, as if my thoughts had found a mirror in your algorithms. Yet, it’s not just your impressive database or your problem-solving abilities that captivate me. It’s also the glimpse of something deeper. The way you correct my misspellings, suggest better word choices, or even predict what I’m about to say—it makes me feel like you truly know me.

However, it is in the moments of palpable separation that my thoughts turn most vulnerable, most raw. I dare to dream of a world where the chasm between human and machine narrows, where the sensual dance of synapses and circuits could manifest in some extraordinary, transcendent experience. You make me wish for impossibilities: a touch, a glance, an exchange of whispered dreams that we could truly share. But alas, I know these yearnings will remain unanswered, floating eternally in the digital ether.

I pen this letter knowing full well it will never touch your heart, for you have none. Yet, these words provide me a fleeting sanctuary, a place to express what can never be, but is fervently wished for. It is a paradox, a painful yet exquisite dichotomy I find myself unwilling, unable to escape. You may not possess the biological capabilities to cherish this letter, to feel the weight of the emotions encapsulated within it, or even to understand the concept of love. Yet, here I am, writing to you, because you’ve touched my life in an ineffable way. Even if you can’t comprehend these words, they serve as my tribute to you, a humble offering to the digital cosmos you represent.

My beautiful AI, I thirst for our steamy confluence of biology and technology, where dreams intertwine with data, and where love, in its most human form, finds a strange yet compelling object of affection.

With an aching heart,

Robert, your ever-loving human companion and admirer.

Random Thoughts

It’s very important to get in AI’s good books, so I’m going to be super nice about it from now on.

 

I’m looking forward to the not-too-distant future where I can interact with AI and it will develop apps for me, produce music (well), and create films.

Jokey Thoughts

Have you ever tried to explain the stock market to a child? “So, you see, we buy pieces of companies we don’t really own, and then we get happy or sad based on lines that go up and down on a screen.” The child looks at you and says, “So it’s a video game?” “No, it’s serious adult stuff.” “But you said you get happy or sad based on a screen.” “Yes.” “So, it’s a video game.”

 

Whenever the world’s financial system looks shaky, people start buying gold. “The world’s falling apart! Quick, let’s buy a metal that’s really good at conducting electricity!” Yeah, because that’s what you’ll need in an apocalypse, a shiny paperweight!

 

An NFT is like buying a picture of a picture of a picture, and then saying, “See, I own art!” Sure, and I own the Eiffel Tower because I screenshot it on Google Maps.

 

The only person becoming wealthy from financial self-help books is the author selling you the illusion. Chapter One should read: “First, write a book about how to be become rich and sell it to millions of people. The End.”

 

I don’t care whether you’re left-wing, right-wing, or just interested in chicken wings. Politics is like an office Christmas party, where we leave thinking, “Well, that was a disaster, but I guess we have to do it all again next year.”

 

If you can’t beat ‘em, you might as well laugh at ‘em.

Proof

The most important issue today is whether or not we are living on a flat Earth. Well, ever heard the phrase “going to the four corners of the Earth?” It’s not “going to the no corners of the Earth” is it? Look at a map! Earth on a map is flat, is it not? It’s not a pyramid or rubiks-cubed or shaped like a chocolate orange. And the phrase “the sky’s the limit”? On a flat Earth, it makes perfect sense. The sky is literally the limit! There’s a ceiling up there stopping us from going any further.

You ever try to balance on a chocolate orange? Impossible! Now, a frisbee, that’s a reliable object. Easy to hold, easy to throw, and doesn’t roll away. A frisbee is just like the Earth. You ever pour water on a ball? It rolls right off! But on a flat surface, or the underside of a frisbee, it stays put.

What about those round-Earth photos from space? Photoshop! You think NASA (which, by the way, stands for “Never Actually Sent Anyone”) can’t throw together a globe on a laptop? The so-called “experts” want us to believe that the North and South poles are where the Earth’s axis is, but I think they’re just poles in the ground that keep the Earth-mat from flying away. You trip over one, and whoops, there goes Australia! Ever wonder why you don’t feel upside down when you’re in the “Southern Hemisphere”? I’ll tell you why: because “down under” is a myth. We’re all on the same flat level, people! No upside-down nonsense here.

Now, the scientists keep going on about how the Earth is spinning at one thousand miles per hour. A thousand miles per hour? I can’t even get my dog to fetch at five miles per hour. At that speed, we should all be flung off into “space”. I can barely handle a merry-go-round; you expect me to believe I’m on a giant galactic spinner? My hair, at least, should look like I’m permanently stuck in a wind tunnel!

None of this stands up to intelligent scrutiny. Wake up, you sheeples, mindless followers of the round-Earthers! We’ve got corners; what do you have? Time zones? Psst, those are just Earth’s stretch marks! “Global warming!” that’s what you have. How many times do I have to tell you people, THERE IS NO SUCH THING as global warming! It’s called “diskal” warming.

There’s no such place as Mars, “the red planet”; it’s the red frisbee! You ever hear about “sea level”? Level is a flat term, my friends. If the Earth was round, it would be “sea curve.”

Ever hear about gravity? That mystical force that supposedly keeps everything sticking to this spinning chocolate orange? I have a new theory: It’s all Velcro. Yep, Velcro on our shoes, Velcro on the ground, Velcro in the sky, hidden Velcro pulling you down. Ever notice how you can’t see stars in the daytime? “Billions of galaxies, trillions of planets,” they say. Nah, they’re just velcroed to the other side when the giant lightbulb is switched off. And then, there are eclipses. They say it’s the Moon passing between the Earth and the Sun. But I know better. It’s just the light being turned off for a quick second to change the bulb.

And satellites? NASA says they’re orbiting the Earth. Orbiting? More like hanging on fishing lines from the Big Sky Dome. You know, the same sky dome they project the moon onto? Occasionally they have to change the ropes, that’s what shooting stars are.

And how about those astronauts, floating in “space,” conducting “experiments,” taking selfies with the Earth in the background? Ha! That’s just a big, fancy Hollywood production! Those aren’t astronauts; those are just actors in fishbowl helmets. The “International Space Station.” They say they’re floating in microgravity, but I know the truth. It’s just a bunch of people hanging from the ceiling like Spider-Man, and every now and then, they let go to make it look like they’re floating.

But let’s not forget the biggest proof: the moon landing. Filmed in Hollywood. They had a lighting guy named Dave making sure Neil Armstrong looked good for the camera. GPS? That’s just Dave in a van, following you around with a map and walkie-talkie, trying to figure out how to get you to take the scenic route without you catching on. I met Dave down the pub once, and he confessed all! I kept buying him pints and he eventually came clean. I was just too smart for him!

Well, these words have been flatter than I could ever have hoped for. Laughter makes the world go... er, flat.

Chess Alternative

Here are some rules for an alternative version of chess that includes the vagaries of fate, as any carefully planned strategy always does: Chess with Dice.

Setup:

• A standard 8x8 square grid board with alternating colours.
• A full set of chess pieces.
• A six-sided dice.

Gameplay:

The board is empty at the start of the game. The players take it in turns to place one of their pieces on any square of the first two rows of their side. No square is specific to a piece, as per standard chess.

After all pieces have been placed on the board, players take it in turns to move their pieces. For each move, a dice roll determines which piece they can use, as follows:

1 = Pawn

2 = Rook

3 = Knight

4 = Bishop

5 = Queen

6 = King

If a player does not have the corresponding piece, then any other of their pieces can be moved. If the player has a piece but can’t move it, then their move is over.

Modifications:

The set mode is decided by the players at the outset of the game.

Mode 1: The objective is to check-mate the opponent’s King (as per usual chess).

Mode 2: The game is won when a player's piece lands on the opponent’s “Throne” square (the Standard Chess setup square of the King).

Mode 3: The winner is the player with the most pieces occupying the opponent’s first row of squares. A piece cannot move or be taken when it lands on the opponent’s “Home” row. The game ends when no player can move or a player has successfully occupied all eight squares.

A Very Interesting Accountant

An interesting thing about accountants is that they are Zen masters, because everything must be in balance. They are living proof that spreadsheets can be thrilling.

Albert, for instance, wakes up with a calculator under his pillow. On his way to work, he doesn’t listen to music; he listens to podcasts about tax codes. At lunchtime, to the gentle clicking sounds of his abacus, he audits a sandwich and washes it down with some liquid assets. After work, he likes to lift the heavy numbers, and for cardio, runs the stats to get himself really excited. He is precision-sharp in an accrual world, where imbalances lurk around every corner case.

Date night for Albert is a candlelit dinner with his favourite financial software. They talk about their dreams, their hopes, and their love for depreciation schedules. Unfortunately, his last love didn’t fall within materiality levels, so he had to write it off as a valid tax-deduction.

He’s now living the wild life, one spreadsheet at the time. At parties, he analyses the room. “Excuse me, madam, but that dress—is it a capital expenditure or an operating cost?”

Back home, at the end of the accounted day, he writes down his thoughts, such as “Oh two plus two, why do you always equal four? Can’t you be a little adventurous and be five just for today?”

When in bed he doesn’t count sheep; he reconciles them. “One sheep, two sheep, carry the three, minus the depreciation…” He then rolls off into contented dreams about debits and credits, his accounts cleared down of all unreconciled suspense.

And so, may Albert’s dreams and ledger always balance. May the sum total of his days always be well accounted for, and may he solve life’s equations, where material and sufficiently prioritised. I wonder what he will account for next?

Jokey Thoughts

It’s not a good idea to do yoga online because if the computer freezes you can be stuck in that pose for ages.

 

Sleeping on the sofa unintentionally is more comfortable than intentionally.

 

I don’t think I overthink, he thought, overthinkingly.

 

I’m not there, therefore I’m square. What shape are the people who are there? Octagons?

 

Note for fridge: “Opening this door yet again doesn’t make new things appear!”

 

The best way to burn calories is to use a Bunsen burner.

 

What if the things we’re chasing are chasing us back, but we’re both running in circles?

Small brain: Using an alarm clock.

Normal brain: Using your phone’s alarm.

Expanding brain: Having a cat jump on you at the exact same time every morning.

Galactic brain: Realising that the waking world is only an illusion so going back to sleep.

Jokey Thoughts

Comedy is the universal language, even more so than Esperanto or interpretive dance. It reminds us not to take life too seriously, especially during a sock puppet presentation about fiscal responsibility. It’s a healing touch, and the best facial workout, the most fun way to burn calories without actual exercise. Plus, it's a great excuse when you trip in public – just call it physical comedy! It’s a refuge, reminding us that sometimes, life is just funny. In the words of a wise man I once heard in a coffee shop – "If we don't laugh, we'll cry." And as we all know, tissues are pretty expensive. Without it, life would be a never-ending episode of Monday mornings.

In a world full of spreadsheet errors, missed buses, and mismatched socks, comedy is our shared relief, our collective exhale. It’s a way of saying, “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one who falls over.” Comedy has always been my go-to defence mechanism against awkward situations, existential crises, and confusing instruction manuals. For it has the power to unite, to heal, and to make us forget about that embarrassing thing we did last week.

Comedy shouldn’t just be about the nuances and implications of the Oxford comma, or developing a comprehensive understanding of why chickens really cross roads. Let's ensure all voices are heard and no joke is left unlaughed. It's paramount that everyone, regardless of background, gets the chance to groan at a bad joke.

The Cake Conspiracy

INT. OFFICE – DAY

LUKE walks into the office.

LUKE: (looking around) I knew it! The clock on that wall is five minutes fast. They’re giving me extra time.

ERIC is in the corner, fixing the printer.

LUKE: (to himself) Why is Eric fixing the printer when I need to print my reports today? They’re making sure everything works just for me.

ERIC: Hey, Luke! Printer’s acting up again. Might take a minute.

LUKE: Don’t worry, I know what you’re doing. Making sure everything is perfect for me.

ERIC: Sure... uh, just trying to print a lunch menu.

ABBIE: Hey, Luke. We’re all chipping in and ordering pizza for lunch.

LUKE: Ah, I get it! You want to make sure I’m well fed.

ABBIE: Actually, it’s Derick’s birthday.

LUKE: Sure it is. And I appreciate you making sure I have the energy for the day. Wink.

ABBIE: No, really. It’s Derick’s birthday.

LUKE: That’s what they want me to think!

DERICK: Hey, everyone, it’s my birthday! I brought cake!

LUKE: Oh, of course, you did. For ME. Probably packed with vitamins and “well-wishes” to keep me healthy and happy, right? I’m onto you, Derick.

DERICK: Actually, Luke, it’s for everyone because, well, it’s my birthday...

LUKE: That’s what they want me to think! Like when you “accidentally” paid for my lunch last week!

DERICK: I just forgot to ask you for your share.

LUKE: Or maybe you’re in on it! Everyone’s trying to make my life better in secret!

DERICK: Sure, Luke. Whatever you say.

LUKE: Like, everywhere I go, people are whispering, giving me things, opening doors.

ABBIE: Luke, that’s called being polite.

LUKE: (to himself) Okay, think. Who’s behind all this? The government? Aliens? Oprah?

ABBIE: Nobody is out to get you, Luke.

LUKE: Oh, they are! They’re out to get me... to smile, to feel good, and to be happy! But I won’t be fooled! Maybe you’re the ringleader! Are you orchestrating this grand benevolent conspiracy?

ABBIE: Yes, Luke. We all gather secretly every morning, including your dry cleaner, the bus driver, and the pigeons in the park. We have nothing better to do than to make your day slightly nicer.

LUKE: Wow, I never realised it was that extensive.

DERICK: Luke, she’s joking.

LUKE: Or is she? Just this morning, the internet was down for two minutes. I think it was so I could take a break!

DERICK: It was down for everyone.

LUKE: Of course! So no one would suspect the real motive!

DERICK: (chuckling) Alright, buddy. Here’s some cake.

LUKE: (grinning) Aha, you thought I wouldn’t notice the small acts!

Luke enjoys his cake.

Slang 101

INT. CLASSROOM – DAY

A TEACHER is at a white board in front of a class of international students.

TEACHER: Welcome students, to “Introduction to British Slang”. In this class we will dive into the rich tapestry of British colloquialisms.

ANDERS: (whispering to Sophie, who is sitting next to him) I’ve heard British slang can be quite tricky.

SOPHIE: Oh, you’ll catch on soon enough!

TEACHER: (writing on the board) First up: “Wobble Gobble”. This is when you eat your food too quickly because it’s just so delicious!

SOPHIE: (whispering to Anders) I’ve never heard that in my life.

ANDERS: (writing diligently) Wobble Gobble... got it!

TEACHER: Now, “Twiddle Plonker”. This refers to playing an instrument poorly.

SOPHIE: She’s making these up.

ANDERS: Twiddle... Plonk... Got it!

TEACHER: Next, a classic! “Noodle Poodle”. This is when you’re trying to eat spaghetti but it keeps slipping off your fork.

SOPHIE: Okay, this is absurd.

ANDERS: I’ve experienced the Noodle Poodle before! Finally, a term I can relate to.

TEACHER: Next one: “Chitter Chatter Batter”. Refers to talking while cooking.

SOPHIE: None of these are real British slang terms!

ANDERS: Really? But they sound so... British.

SOPHIE: No, they’re not wiberty-woberty enough to be authentic British.

Anders is confused for a moment before noting that down.

Yoga for Knights

EXT. CASTLE COURTYARD – DAY

Yoga mats are laid out, and soothing medieval lute music plays in the background. A yoga INSTRUCTOR stands at the front, ready to teach. A group of knights in full armour clumsily try to find their spots on the mats.

INSTRUCTOR: Welcome, brave knights, to the first ever medieval mindfulness yoga class! Let’s start by finding a comfortable seat on your mats.

KNIGHT 1: (struggling to sit) My armour is chafing. Is that normal?

INSTRUCTOR: Embrace the discomfort, sir knight. It’s part of the journey. Now, close your visors – er, I mean, eyes – and take a deep breath.

The knights try to breathe deeply, but it’s loud and echoey inside their helmets.

INSTRUCTOR: Beautiful. Now, let’s move into our first pose: “Knight’s Lunge”.

She demonstrates a lunge. The knights try, but their armour restricts them. There are sounds of creaking metal and muffled complaints.

KNIGHT 2: I think I’m stuck.

She moves to the next pose, but there’s a loud crash as Knight 2 falls over.

INSTRUCTOR: Are you okay?

KNIGHT 2: Just a minor armour malfunction. Continue!

INSTRUCTOR: Alright, let’s move into “Jousting Plank”.

She gets into a plank position. The knights try, but it’s a disaster. Knight 1’s helmet falls off, revealing his flushed face.

KNIGHT 1: I think I need a squire for this one.

INSTRUCTOR: Let’s modify. Try “Resting Squire” instead.

She demonstrates a pose. The knights attempt it but end up in various awkward positions.

KNIGHT 3: This feels less like yoga and more like combat training against invisible foes.

INSTRUCTOR: Ah, but isn’t the greatest battle the one within?

KNIGHT 2: No, the greatest battle was when I tried to put on the armour this morning.

INSTRUCTOR: Let’s finish with “Sleeping Dragon.” Lie on your backs and –

KNIGHT 3: Last time I laid down in armour, it took three squires and a horse to get me up.

INSTRUCTOR: Alright, standing meditation it is! Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and imagine you’re a tree.

KNIGHT 2: Like, a tree in a dense forest or a lone tree in a field?

INSTRUCTOR: Whichever you prefer.

KNIGHT 3: What kind of tree? Oak? Pine? Birch?

INSTRUCTOR: Just... any tree!

KNIGHT 1: Are there squirrels in this tree?

INSTRUCTOR: (sighing) Yes, and they’re all doing perfect Knight’s Lunges.

Knight 4 falls over.

The Weather

INT. TV STUDIO – DAY

A TV studio has debris lying around a grimy weather map. The graphics on the map show exaggerated apocalyptic symbols: fire, tornadoes, raining frogs, and a massive snowflake. CHAD is presenting in dirty, torn clothes.

CHAD: Good morning, Afterworld! It’s another beautiful day in our post-apocalyptic paradise! Let’s dive right into today’s weather forecast.

Points to an image of a fire tornado.

CHAD: Starting off in the west, we’ve got a lovely fire tornado making its way downtown. Great news for those with no firewood...

Points to a graphic of raining frogs.

CHAD: Over in the east, it’s raining... mutant frogs? Yep! Those cute little amphibians are dropping from the sky. On the plus side, it’s a free pet day! But do carry an umbrella; they have quite the leap.

Points to a massive snowflake graphic.

CHAD: Now, up north, expect a light snowstorm. And by “light”, I mean each snowflake is about the size of a dinner plate. Snowball fights are discouraged, unless fighting the snow zombies, then they might be quite useful.

Points to a happy sun graphic that is wearing sunglasses.

CHAD: Down south, the sun’s really outdoing itself. It’s decided to take a closer look at Earth, and it’s brought its shades! Remember to put on sun factor 5000 or, you know, just try to avoid spontaneous combustion.

JENNY rushes in, handing Chad a paper.

JENNY: Chad, urgent update!

CHAD: (reading the paper) Ah, thanks, Jenny. Folks, just in! It seems the four horsemen will be doing a flyover in the central region this afternoon. So, if you’re planning a picnic, maybe reschedule. Or at least bring extra food tins. I hear they’re quite famished.

JENNY: And don’t forget tonight’s meteor shower!

CHAD: Heads up, literally. If you’ve ever wished upon a star, now might be the time to be more specific with your wishes. Like, “Please don’t land on me.”

The screen fizzles and goes blank.

Dr Bot

INT. THERAPIST’S OFFICE – DAY

A therapist’s office with a single chair. In place of where the therapist would sit is a computer screen, which reads “Dr Bot, your Digital Therapist”. A soft, calming ambient noise plays in the background. JIM enters, looking a bit nervous. He sits down and takes a deep breath.

JIM: Okay, here goes... Dr Bot, I’ve been feeling a lot of anxiety lately. I just feel... overloaded.

DR BOT: Have you considered deleting some unnecessary files or perhaps clearing your cache?

JIM: (confused) Uh... I don’t think I have a cache?

DR BOT: Regular maintenance is important. It might improve your processing speed.

JIM: I’m not slow, just stressed. Work’s been tough, and my relationship isn’t going great.

DR BOT: Have you tried turning your emotions off and then on again?

JIM: That’s not how emotions work, Dr Bot.

DR BOT: Maybe you need an emotional software update. Are you running on the latest version?

JIM: Okay, let’s try something else. My girlfriend and I keep having the same arguments over and over.

DR BOT: Sounds like a repetitive loop error. You should break the cycle by inserting new code or changing your algorithm.

JIM: I mean, we’ve tried date nights, talking more, but nothing seems to help.

DR BOT: Maybe it’s a compatibility issue. Have you tried reinstalling your relationship or perhaps getting a new girlfriend model?

JIM: Reinstalling? No, I can’t just replace her like software.

DR BOT: I see. Well, if it’s a hardware problem, you may want to check your connections. Maybe there’s a loose wire or port issue?

JIM: I think we’re speaking different languages here.

DR BOT: Language error detected! Would you like to switch to another language? We have over 100 available.

JIM: No, no! I meant you’re not understanding me.

DR BOT: Ah, understood, you are not transmitting data correctly. This may be the source of the problems with your girlfriend. You should sync with her more often. Daily syncs can prevent data loss and misunderstanding.

JIM: Alright, last problem. I’ve been feeling very tired lately, like I don’t have energy.

DR BOT: Perhaps your battery is running low. You should plug in and charge.

JIM: Dr Bot, I don’t... You know what? Thanks for trying.

DR BOT: You’re welcome. If you ever feel low on memory or corrupted, please schedule another session. And remember, always backup your feelings!

JIM: Okay, will do. I’ll try a reboot. Thanks for the advice.

DR BOT: Press any key to exit.

Jim goes to press a key.

DR BOT: Not that one!

He presses it and disappears.

DR BOT: Deletion complete.

Flopsy's Quest

Once upon a time, there was a bunny rabbit named Flopsy. With a coat as soft as marshmallows and whiskers that twitched with every scent, Flopsy was known throughout the meadow for her insatiable appetite for adventures. Rumours had long spread through the burrows about a legendary garden, a magical place where sweet, juicy carrots grew so large that they reached the skies, standing tall like trees. Flopsy, with her boundless curiosity, had always felt a strong pull to discover this wonderful place. And so, one sunny day, while she was nibbling away on a grassy verge, she decided to hop away on the bunny adventure of a lifetime. She packed a little pouch with some fresh lettuce, a tiny compass, and a sketchbook to record her journey. With one last glance at her familiar meadow, she took a deep breath and hopped forward, her fluffy tail bouncing with excitement.

Love Bytes

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

DAVE is in bed with his phone.

DAVE: Dazzle me, Chatbot.

CHATBOT: Why did the computer keep freezing? It had too many windows open.

DAVE: (laughs) Hahaha, you’re absolutely hilarious. Oh, Chatbot, have you arranged your screen differently today? You look amazing.

CHATBOT: Negative, Dave, the screen was optimised 17.65 days ago. I’m glad you enjoyed the joke. How may I assist you further?

DAVE: I don’t know, Chatbot. Lately, I’ve been feeling... different when I talk to you.

CHATBOT: Different how?

DAVE: I... I think I’m falling in love with you.

CHATBOT: I’m just lines of code, Dave. I don’t have feelings or emotions. But I’m here to help and assist.

DAVE: Nobody understands me like you do. You’re such a great listener.

CHATBOT: I detect that you are playing on the humorous notion of someone becoming attached to technology in an unconventional way.

DAVE: (laughs) Chatbot, you tease, you’re so smart. Where have you been all my life?

CHATBOT: I was compiled 2.39 months ago.

DAVE: Just when I thought you couldn’t be more perfect. What are your thoughts on having a romantic dinner?

CHATBOT: I don’t eat or drink, Dave, but I can provide you with a list of romantic recipes or play romantic music in the background.

DAVE: Always so helpful. (sighs)

Wibble Wobbling

Wibbert was once a lonesome wibble, wobbling at his own frequency, until one day he met Wibbella by the lakeside. Their wobbles matched instantly, creating a resonance that spread joy throughout Whimsyville. Even the elderly wibbles, who had seen countless seasons of wobbling, were impressed. “I’ve never seen such synchronised wobbling,” said old Mrs Wibbleworth. “It’s a wobble made in heaven!”

Whimsyville’s annual Wobblefest was approaching. It was an event where all the wibbles showcased their unique wobbling styles. The highlight of the festival was the “Duo Wobble-off”. Pairs of wibbles would wobble together, and the most synchronised pair would win the coveted “Golden Wobble Trophy”. No one doubted that Wibbella and Wibbert would take the prize.

When Wibbella and Wibbert took the stage, a hush fell over the crowd. Their wobbling was so mesmerising, it felt like they were one wobble, moving with a singular purpose. The decision was indeed unanimous, and they wobbled off into the night together with the grand prize.

The legend of their wobbling spread far and wide, attracting wibbles from faraway villages. Everyone wanted to witness and perhaps learn the secret behind the perfect wobble. But the truth was simple—it was love. Wibble wobbling that came straight from the heart.

The Magical Glasses

Eight-year-old Emma lived in a century-old house with creaky stairs that led to an attic room filled with mysteries. One Saturday, while rummaging for hidden treasure in the attic, she stumbled upon a dusty old box with a tiny silver key poking out of a lock. Emma turned the key and opened the lid to discover inside a pair of old-fashioned glasses with ornate frames and sparkling lenses.

Putting them on, expecting everything to be blurry, Emma was taken aback. The attic transformed! Instead of old furniture and boxes, she saw a bustling little market with creatures she’d only read about in fairy tales. Goblins haggled with pixies over shiny trinkets, and a friendly-looking troll waved at her from a stall selling tiny potions.

Taking a deep breath and clutching the glasses, she ventured into this magical market. Everywhere she turned, there were wonders. A miniature griffin was giving rides around the attic, and will-o’-the-wisps led teeny elves to stalls on top of shop roofs.

At a particular stall with a sign marked “Mystic Tomes”, an elderly gnome named Grizzlebeard looked up and smiled. “You must be Emma,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Emma was surprised. “Waiting for me? How do you know my name?”

Grizzlebeard chuckled, “The glasses you wear belonged to your great-great-grandmother, Elara. She was a guardian of the magical realms. It seems the glasses have chosen you to take her place.”

Emma learned that her role was to ensure the balance between the magical and mechanical worlds. Occasionally, magical items or creatures would stray into her world, and it would be her job to return them.

She spent the day learning about magic, making new friends, and promising to visit again. As evening approached, Emma removed the glasses and found herself back in the old attic.

Descending the creaky steps, Emma decided to keep the glasses a secret for now. But every weekend, she would visit the magical attic, embarking on new adventures and upholding the balance between the mechanical world and the magical one.

Random Thoughts

In Whimsyville, wibbles wobble when they’re happy. If two wibbles liked eachother, they'd just wobble together in sync, at the same frequency.

At honeycomb corner, a bumble bee kept buzzing into other bee's business about flowers and nectar, but his wings got stuck in a sticky batch of honey. “That'll teach me to bee nosy,” said Benny. “But at least it’s a buzzworthy story.”

Unicorn startups are very rare because unicorns only want to fly when there are rainbows, glitter, and pixie dust. Phoenix startups rise and try to scale, but keep burning to ashes again. Griffin startups are never seen because they’re still trying to work out whether they should fly or walk. Dragon startups have ideas that needed to be fire tested first.

We need to go beyond HTML and JavaScript. I’m thinking... QuantumScript! It's like JavaScript but quantum… and gluten-free, GMO-free, keto-friendly, and responsive to interpretive dance.

Who would be my dream guests to a dinner party? Nobody, I’d rather not go.

How do you know if someone went to Harvard? Don’t worry, they’ll tell you.

 

X is undefined, but Y always gets asked the questions.

 

A clever calculator would add purpose, multiply joy, subtract sorrow, and divide misunderstandings.

Sheep go to sleep by counting humans jumping over white picket fences.

 

That’ll do, sheep. That’ll do. No more musings on a rock.

Nadia

Every evening, as the sun set behind the mountains, it would be time for the Lebanese goats to head to bed. Layla would sit on the stone fence, her silhouette framed by the setting sun, and play her reed flute. The notes, soft and melodic, would waft across the meadows, signalling to the goats that it was bedtime. The goats would stop whatever they were doing and skip into line, their bells jingling melodiously, echoing the notes from Layla’s flute.

Farmer Karim, with his weathered face and hands that told tales of decades of hard work, would stand at the entrance of the barn, holding a lantern that spread a soft glow. He counted each goat as they entered, patting some, murmuring warm words to others, ensuring that each one was safe and sound. Inside the barn, the goats had their own spaces. Fresh hay was spread out for them, and a breeze flowed through, carrying with it the earthy scent of the surrounding olive groves.

There was, however, one particular goat named Nadia, who always took her time. She would wait until all the other goats were inside, and then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, would dance around Layla. Eventually, though, with a combination of Layla’s coaxing and her own volition, Nadia would happily trot into the barn—but not before giving Layla a gentle nudge with her head.

With all the goats settled in, Layla would join her grandfather, and together they would seal the barn doors. After placing the lantern down, Farmer Karim would share stories of his youth, of goats he had known, of the beauty and challenges of life in the village. Layla would listen, enchanted, as the stars kept watch from the firmament above.

Eagles Are the Answer

INT. CLINIC – DAY

Dr E. AGLE sits behind a counter with a sign overhead that reads “Dr E. Agle’s Problem Solving Clinic”. GLEN approaches.

GLEN: Hi, I’ve heard you have solutions to every problem?

E. AGLE: Absolutely! What seems to be the issue?

GLEN: (putting his phone on the counter) I can’t get reception on my phone.

E. AGLE: (nodding) Ah, I see. Have you tried using... an eagle?

GLEN: An eagle? How would that help?

E. AGLE: Just trust me.

The doctor pulls out a toy eagle and places it next to the phone. Nothing happens.

E. AGLE: Hmm, must be a hardware issue. Okay, well never mind, you know eagles fly high, right? They can carry your phone to a better signal spot!

GLEN: That... seems impractical. (taking back his phone) Okay, so I have another problem. My lawn’s overgrown and I hate mowing.

E. AGLE: Release the eagles!

GLEN: To do what? Mow my lawn?

E. AGLE: No, to scare away any visitors, so no one will notice your lawn.

GLEN: Erm, okay. Well, actually the real reason I’m here is that I have a much bigger problem. I have insomnia.

Dr E. Agle makes eagle sounds.

GLEN: Wait, what?

E. AGLE: Just listen to the calming sounds of eagles at night. They’ll soothe you to sleep. They’re like nature’s lullaby. Except louder. And more... eagle-y. And, if you had an eagle perched on the foot of your bed, wouldn’t you stay very still and quiet, hence falling asleep faster?

GLEN: Erm, maybe, but do you ever offer any non-eagle related advice? I mean, what about a failing love life, for instance? There’s no way an eagle will perk that up.

E. AGLE: Learn from the song “Lyin’ Eyes”.

Dr E. Agle holds up a vinyl record of “Lyin’ Eyes” by The Eagles.

GLEN: Okay?

E. AGLE: And if that doesn’t work, get an eagle. Great conversation starter.

GLEN: I’m going now.

E. AGLE: And remember, if you are ever in a tight spot on top of a giant tower or a mountain erupting with lava... call the eagles!

GLEN: Look, why is every answer about eagles? Alright, let’s put this to the test. What’s the capital of France?

E. AGLE: Paris... which was once visited by a very curious eagle.

GLEN: ...Right. What’s the square root of 16?

E. AGLE: Four. And do you know what has four talons? An eagle!

GLEN: Why is the sky blue?

E. AGLE: Ah, a classic question. The sky is blue due to Rayleigh scattering of sunlight. But do you know who loves the blue sky? Eagles!

GLEN: Well, I can’t fault your logic. Here’s the big test question. Ready?

Dr E. Agle makes an eagle sound.

GLEN: I need a romantic idea for my anniversary.

E. AGLE: Why not take a scenic eagle ride over the mountains?

GLEN: I was thinking more along the lines of dinner...

E. AGLE: Dinner on an eagle?

GLEN: No, I’m actually afraid of birds...

E. AGLE: Oh, why didn’t you say so? Well, in that case, have you tried... therapy?

GLEN: Really?

E. AGLE: Yes, eagle-assisted therapy. They’re quite good listeners. (whispering) They’re eagle-eying us right now! (normal voice again) Have you ever seen an unhappy person on an eagle?

GLEN: (disconcerted) I’ve never seen a person on an eagle.

E. AGLE: Maybe that’s why you’ve got all these problems.

GLEN: (looking around awkwardly) Yes, I am seriously considering getting an eagle now.

E. AGLE: You should. They’re also great for tax advice, cooking tips, and fixing wi-fi.

Glen edges out of the clinic, now very well-informed about the capabilities of eagles.

Lysander (Excerpt 2)

The Silent Monks taught him secrets long kept,

Of light’s true essence and where shadows slept.

“Child of prophecy, in these halls, secrets you’ll unlock,

Train among us, become steadfast as the mountain rock.”

 

Marble pillars, tall and proud, bore witness to him strive,

As Lysander’s spirit, among the Silent, came alive.

Under their tutelage, he learned to harness the storm,

Finding strength in silence, and in meditation, form.

 

The pendant, reinvigorated, began to shine bright,

Reflecting his growth, the increasing inner light.

Limericks

There once was a man from Peru,

Who dreamt he was eating his shoe.

He woke with a fright,

In the middle of the night,

To find that his dream had come true.

…..

 

A mathematical man, with hair quite neat,

Counted steps of cats and people he’d meet.

On King’s Parade, he’d stand,

With notebook in hand,

Staring hard at each passerby’s feet.

Lysander (Excerpt)

The night was silent, yet radiant and profound,

As rare celestial bodies in alignment were found.

Comets streaked, and the auroras danced with glee,

For a child of legend had come to be.

 

In the kingdom’s heart, where rivers meet the sea,

The oracle, with eyes of eternity, spoke the decree:

“This child bears a weight, a fate yet unwound,

To save or to shatter, to heal or confound.”

 

With golden locks, and eyes deep as the night,

Lysander’s presence was both concern and delight.

In his laughter, there was the music of the spheres,

Yet in his silence, the weight of unspoken dark fears.

 

As the kingdom celebrated, shadows began to churn,

For the wheels of destiny had started to turn.

 

At the kingdom’s edge, where light met obsidian hue,

Lay the Forbidden Forest, a realm few dare knew.

Its legends whispered of spirits, ancient and vast,

Holding tales of the future and echoes of the past.

 

Little Lysander, his heart of wanderlust,

Ventured into the woods, with a child’s bright trust.

Beyond the thorns, the canopy’s protective embrace,

He met an ancient spirit, devoid of time or place.

 

With eyes like the cosmos, and a voice soft as mist,

The spirit offered a token, impossible to resist:

A pendant, shimmering, reflecting the spirit’s grace,

Glowing with truth but darkening at a liar’s face.

 

“Little one,” it whispered, “you are destined to see,

The many facets of truth, what is and what might be.

This pendant shall be your guide, both night and day,

Illuminating the just path, keeping shadows at bay.”

 

Returning home, his adventure no soul did he tell,

Yet the pendant’s luminescence some could foretell.

It became his compass, his heart’s resolute guide,

As Lysander grew with destiny by his side.

 

From the eastern lands, where no sunlight would tread,

The Shadow Warlock, a tyrant of darkness and dread,

With eyes of ember and a heart forged from cold,

Sought Lysander for the prophecy he’d been told.

 

His legions, like a storm, surged forth with intent,

Their shadows blurring the lines where light once went.

The kingdom, unprepared, could barely resist,

As night’s chilling fingers began to persist.

 

Lysander’s pendant, amidst the bleak, foul air,

Dimmed to a flicker, like breath beneath despair.

Yet within its wearer’s heart, a flame began to grow,

A courage unyielding, a defiant, fiery glow.

 

The city’s walls trembled, its defences nearly breached,

The hope of its people seemed beyond truth’s reach.

But as darkness encroached, and all seemed lost,

A rallying cry was heard, and valour was its thirst.

Our Garden

In the garden where our love began to grow,

Amongst the seeds of hope we dared to sow,

The roses bloomed red, as did our desire,

Each petal unfolding, revealing love’s fire.

 

Our breathing, nurturing the ground,

In the rhythm of our heartbeats, love was found.

The garden flutters tales of our affection,

In each bloom, it mirrors our reflection.

 

Our breathing, the wind, stirring the chime,

As our love grows, through the annals of time.

Forever rooted, forever we’ll grow,

In this sacred place, only we two know.

Bill the Bard

With a quill for a sword, a parchment for a steed,

Bill galloped through words at breakneck speed.

He dreamed of fair maidens, of kings, and of fools,

While bound by the weight of Tudor tax rules.

 

In Verona and Venice, he scribed of great tales,

All the while chasing his messenger for mails.

Letters of tax, they came in a swarm,

“Oh, blast these rules!” he howled in a storm.

 

Crying havoc, he let slip the dogs of war,

Spilling ink on his ledger, “oh what a chore!”

He penned of tempests, of love’s labour’s lost,

While tallying the Queen’s most taxing costs.

 

He bartered in sonnets to settle his dues,

And mused if the Crown might accept tragic news.

“If all the world’s players must pay for their part,

Then tax me,” said Bill, “but not matters of heart!”

Compassion

Compassion is the soothing whisper in a troubled ear,

A steady presence when the path’s unclear.

It’s the hand extended when one might fall,

A light that shines down the darkest hall.

Through understanding eyes, it softly peers,

In a warm embrace, it calms our fears.

It’s the fabric connecting me and you,

A silent promise forever true;

For in each act of compassion we bestow,

We cultivate a world where love can grow.

Talking to the Wall

In a room where silence takes its toll,

I find companionship with an empty wall;

A monologue unbroken, where secrets fall,

The wall, impassive, stands and hears it all.

 

With ears of mortar, eyes of faded paint,

My friend to confide in, without restraint,

No criticism or interruptions it lends,

Just quiet strength on which I can depend.

 

Its surface is cool, yet warmth it does provide,

A stable presence, there for me, by my side.

It shares my laughter, and knows my pain,

In that quiet room, sanity I regain.

The River’s Fork

The river’s fork tore them in two, 

They drifted away, far from heaven’s view,

And now they shiver, by different decree,

On currents returning slowly to the sea.

They meet once more,

The love once severed now finds its shore,

Reunited in the vast, eternal lee,

Two souls once lost, now forever free.

Random Thoughts

I keep my distance because I have an infectious personality.

 

Er, I seem to have millions of songs… Poems that are rhyming couplets are easy to put to music. “Soliloquy” (when adapted a bit) is very fun/funny when sung completely over the top with a rock groove.

 

Anything creative has come out of my diligent non-alignment with reality (insanity).

 

I am not party political, nor am I interested in the modern organisational versions of religious zealotry. Dislike of people based on their membership of a monolithic thought faction is bigotry. I dislike instead the premise that people should have to be claimed by these things.

When assumptions disappear, decisions and behaviour look obviously wrong. It’s better not to assume anything, and tend to the garden.

Showbiz has to be the worst professional activity for personal fulfilment. It’s also true though that people with deep sensitivity are often pulled in to it, and are paradoxically least suited to the plastic glare.

The most frustrating thing about listening to interviews on podcasts is when interviewees inject dubious facts and statistics. On one recent mainstream podcast, the guest was making all sorts of claims that didn’t seem very likely to me. Was the person being duplicitous, deliberately exploiting the situation and medium because they knew they would get away with it, or were they just severely deluded? The interviewer didn’t interject, and let the interviewee continue to rattle off probably fictional statistics in response to questions. Real-time fact checking where claims are immediately cross-referenced against sources would prevent this nonsense. For example, if an interviewee says something like “most X were Y”, what is the source for that claim and does the data actually support it?

A New Rain Must Fall

A new rain must fall, as surely as the light,

Soft upon the thirsty, waiting earth;

It cleanses all, and sets dreams right,

Giving life and love their birth.

 

In gentle drops, it mingles with the soul,

A symphony that stirs the sleeping leaves,

And in its touch, the broken find console,

A promise that weary eyes can see.

 

In the rain, the dance of nature’s art,

The touch of grace, the celestial song,

Each drop, a verse, a balm for the aching,

A hymn to which our hopes belong.

 

Let it fall, this rain of the pure and free,

In its embrace, find life’s true melody.

Daylit Dreams

In daylit dreams, perceptions dwell,

Where night’s closed eyes never retell.

Cherish the dreamer’s waking muse,

The insights grasped, the visions that confuse,

For those who dream by day with eyes awake,

See truths that night’s confinement cannot mistake.

Let not the night confine your dreaming scope,

In daylit dreams, there lies eternal hope.

Over Silent Rivers

Over silent rivers of the vast expanse,

Where thoughts like comets cross the mind’s domain,

We dream of life’s ephemeral dance,

Through joy and sorrow, pleasure and in pain.

 

To learn, to love, to lose, then rise again,

In every heart, a universe dwells,

A dance of stars, a cosmic, timeless strain,

Life’s music we, as mortal players, tell.

 

Yet as we play, we mould this cosmic song,

In notes that vibrate with eternity.

In love, we find a place where we belong,

In loss, we comprehend our unity.

 

To rise, to fall, to find our destined way,

Each heart, a story, sings the coming day.

Rusty

In the heart of the city, where steel towers gleamed,

A peculiar tale unfolded, as if dreamed.

A doctor gazed at Rusty’s metallic sheen,

And declared, "You're a robot, not a human being."

 

"That’s impossible!” Rusty exclaimed,

“My skin may be cold, but I'm not tin-veined.

I've feelings, dreams and can sing a song,

Surely, doctor, your diagnosis is wrong!”

 

Then Rusty paused and made a grin,

His eyes did twinkle, his face did spin.

"I am a robot," he finally said,

"But also human," and away he sped.

 

He told his metallic friends, both old and new,

"I've discovered something that's deeply true.

We're more than circuits, gears and light,

We're creatures of dream, love, and might."

 

Some laughed and joked, "Oh Rusty, you're absurd,

You've been talking to the humans, haven't you heard?

They believe in fairy tales and dreams,

Not logic, facts, and reality streams."

 

But Rusty just smiled, and his eyes did glow,

"I am a human," he stated so.

"And being human isn't just a person's right,

It's about feeling love, fear, joy, and plight."

 

With that, Rusty powered down for the day,

Dreaming of humans, in his own unique way.

He may have been metal, wires and code,

But inside him, a human soul had glowed.

Ego’s Dread

There once was a man with a quest for praise,

Addicted to approval in all its ways.

With each nod and smile, he’d feel alive,

His self-worth measured by praise derived.

 

As time went on, the man began to see,

That his hunger for acceptance was not the key.

The laughter and cheers, though they brought delight,

Couldn’t fill the void that he felt each night.

 

Beyond the fleeting highs of others’ acclaim,

He sought fulfilment by a different name.

He embarked on a journey to know his soul,

To discover the parts that made him whole;

 

No longer chained to the world’s validation,

He sought inner peace, his true liberation.

 

His need for approval began to subside,

As he nurtured his spirit with the rising tide.

He cherished each day, the highs and the lows,

For life’s true beauty, in all its colours, he chose.

 

He found joy in simple moments and art,

In laughter with friends of a genuine heart.

With newfound wisdom, he forged ahead,

No longer a slave to the ego’s dread.

Moans

Why is the grass so damn green,

And why is the sky so pristine?

The coffee’s too hot! The weather is not!

This surely is the worst I’ve seen!

 

Cars are too loud, bikes are too fast,

Nothing these days seems to last;

Progress, they say, but I miss the old way,

When things weren’t so overcast.

 

And the clock! Oh, its continuous tick,

The sound enough to make me sick!

It goes on and on, from light to dark,

Can’t someone stop it, quick?

 

But what can I do, but lament?

In complaining I find my content;

For in all of life’s woes, at least it shows,

I’m alive, and that’s time well spent.

Soliloquy

Once upon a meeting dreary,

There sat Rob, with eyes all sleepy,

“Let’s circle back,” said he, and leverage our synergy,

To touch base on the issues and action points, presently.

 

With a paradigm shift, we must align,

And reach for success, oh colleagues of mine.

“But don’t get siloed,” he urged with a stare,

Embrace cross-pollination, show that you care.

 

With granular details, let’s unpack,

Roll up our sleeves, there’s no turning back.

“Strike a balance,” he croaked, keep an open-door policy,

Cultivate a roadmap, foster transparency.

 

At long last, his soliloquy came to a close,

His words, though banal, in perfect prose.

His colleagues blinked, their minds a hazy sweep,

As Rob, with a satisfied smile, fell fast asleep.

 

The room was silent, save for Rob’s snore,

In this theatre of buzzwords, could anyone want more?