*tap tap* IS THIS THING ON, DEAR?

As a *cough* woman of a certain age, I am occasionally inclined to find things confusing and/or scary. I fear I have, sadly, reached the point where “youths” are out to get me, I swear at self-checkouts and needed to have a nerve-calming gin when Elon Musk sent that car into space. Which, given that I spend an incredible amount of time writing about the thrilling nuances of corporate strategy and read up on robotics and sodding quantum computing as an essential part of my job, is undoubtedly the result of some mad, as yet undiscovered genetic time-bomb. You know, the same one that makes us roll our eyes and suppress a thousand sighs when our parents panic about The Dark Web after reading the Daily Fail and refer to the Internet as “The World Wide Web”.

It’s the only explanation.

My latest “woah there progress!” moment came at the weekend. For Mother’s Day, my wonderful family furnished me with an Apple Smart Keyboard, with which I am currently typing this blog. It’s clearly fucking wonderful in every way and enables me to do all manner of swish writery things while on the go. Take today – I am sat in the ever-reliable and pleasingly kooky bar of the Soho Theatre, boshing out stories like the proverbial clappers. However, on Sunday it became apparent that all was not entirely well with my lovely new keyboard. It refused to sit flat against it’s surface, a problem I very catchily christened “Flappy Keyboard Syndrome” (I’m available to hire, good people!).

So, I did what everyone does in every circumstance ever – I Googled it. Lo and behold, there were the usual gazillions of whinging bastards, bemoaning their fact that their spectacularly spendy accessory wasn’t sitting flush with their table. “Fucking hell, People On The Internet,” I thought “it’s shit when your diamond shoes are too tight innit?” But a day or two later and I WAS that moany old first world problemer. So I looked again and found a potential solution: bend the keyboard back a bit.

“No!” cried Endlessly Patient Husband, “You have no idea what kind of circuitry is in there!” He was absolutely correct on this matter, of course. Let’s not fuck around with stuff we don’t understand.

So I decided to drop into an Apple Store. The one on Regent Street to be precise.

Cooooooooooooooooooooo!

Probably could’ve added a few more “ooooo’s” there, actually. It’s THAT swish. Although the tree/seat things are slightly confusing and not at all comfortable. And I suddenly felt about five thousand years old. I approached a Millennial who was handily wearing an Apple logo on his top and who turned out to be the world’s most polite and helpful human. Say what you like about Apple, the people who work in their stores are fucking delightful. On their first day at work, retail trainees should be frogmarched to the nearest Apple Store and take lessons in the essential skills of customer service, calm in the face of cuntery. And beard maintenance.

In true Apple fashion, where upgrades are as natural as breathing, Delightful Millennial proceeded to hand me over to Delightful Millennial 2, who was more powerful, faster and better suited to my needs. He then upgraded me to Delightful Millennial 3 who, like the porridge, was just right. I sat at my Genius Bar bench expectantly, waiting for all manner of techno-wizardry, complex twiddling and “oooh”ing and “ahhhh”ing on the part of my fellow bench-dwellers. When Delightful Millennial 3 took my Smart Keyboard in his hands, a hush descended.

“Ahhhh… yeah. I just do this,” he said, bending the keyboard back.

It worked, obviously. And while I was incredibly grateful for his help, I couldn’t help but feel like The World’s Biggest Nana as I thanked him and wished him a good day. I was now like one of those little old ladies who take things back to the shop, complaining that they don’t work, only to be told they needed batteries. I thought it was just that SnapChat was shit, but it seems that at the ripe old age of 42 and three quarters, I am officially out of date.

Thing is, I bloody love a bit of technology, but now it bothers me that the more I adopt, the bigger the pillock I’ll look and feel. Like the day when some youths in TopShop pointed at my Air Force Ones. Or when I see grown adult human beings, who have mortgages and pensions and stuff, wearing Beats by Dre headphones in Waitrose.

I see my future as clear as day – and it’s my teenage daughter, cringing at me as I insist on saying “thank you” to Alexa.

I wonder if shopping trolley bags have charging docks these days?

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