Progress
Dr Vernon Coleman
The story below is taken from `The Young Country Doctor Book 6: Bilbury Pie’ by Vernon Coleman. (There are 15 books in `The Young Country Doctor’ series. All can be bought via the bookshop on www.vernoncoleman.com)
Progress
I had lunch last Tuesday at the Gravediggers’ Rest in Braunton. I confess I don’t normally stray so far from Bilbury but I went at the invitation of a friend of mine called Ed Hunter whom I hadn’t seen for quite some time.
Ed is a Director of Human Resources for an American company and he normally works in a city where the traffic jams are endless and the air so polluted that breathing is a dangerous business.
(To be honest I still get confused by phrases such as ‘Director of Human Resources’, though I know that such jargon is all the rage these days. I have heard army spokesmen refer to dead bodies as ‘non effective combat personnel’. On the radio, I heard a housewife described as a ‘life support consultant’. People over sixty are no longer ‘old’. These days they are ‘chronologically enhanced’. Dwarves are ‘vertically challenged’ and tall people are ‘vertically enhanced’. Ed once told me that no one who works for his company is ever made redundant these days. Instead they have to endure ‘management initiated separation’. I think I’d rather be sacked.)
Ed has always been a bit gadget conscious and was the first person I know to have a portable phone. Sadly, however, his gadgets don’t always work. I know for a fact that he has not been able to put his car away in his garage since he had an electrical opening device fitted. His garage now resolutely resists all attempts to persuade it to open and his car stands out in all weathers.
Ed pulled a small computer out of his pocket as we sat down. He couldn’t wait to tell me all about it. ‘It’s brilliant!’ he enthused. He always gets excited about his new gadgets. ‘It’s an electronic notebook, diary and calculator all rolled into one.’ Like most city folk he always thinks that just because I live in the country I live a primitive, rather backward existence. He pressed a couple of buttons and showed me my initials and telephone number on the computer’s tiny screen.
‘There you are!’ he said, triumphantly. He suddenly sniffed as though his nose had been assaulted by some noxious smell. ‘What’s that?’ he demanded.
I sniffed too. I couldn’t smell anything.
I am not over keen on computers. I have an enduring suspicion that much of the time they offer answers to problems people don’t have and wouldn’t be bothered about solving even if they knew they had them. My idea of high technology is having a rubber fixed on the end of my pencil. I put my hand in my pocket, pulled out my old-fashioned pocket diary (29 pence in the January sales), opened it and showed my friend his name, address and telephone number.
‘It’s quicker my way,’ I pointed out.
‘You’re such a Luddite,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ll have to buy another diary next year. My computer comes complete with a 199 year diary.’
I looked at him in quiet amazement. ‘Why do you want a diary for 199 years?’
He had the good grace to look slightly uncomfortable.
‘What appointments do you have for the year 2087?’ I teased him.
He muttered something about long-term strategic planning and then wagged a finger at me. ‘My little gadget will tell me the time in 126 different places all over the world.’
‘How many places can you be in at any one time?’ I wanted to know, genuinely confused and unable to discern a purpose for this excess of knowledge.
Ed was beginning to get angry. ‘Now you’re just being deliberately difficult,’ he said. He tapped away at his tiny keyboard. ‘There!’ he said proudly, a few moments later, showing me his tiny screen. ‘I’ve written myself a memo. When I get back to the office I can copy that out.’
He sniffed again. ‘Are you sure you can’t smell anything odd?’
I pulled a 20 pence notebook out of my pocket, found a stub of pencil and scribbled a memo to myself. As I scribbled I realised what the smell was. Silage. My shoes always smell of silage.
‘Me too!’ I countered, showing him my note.
‘But your diary and your notepad are so ...,’ he paused, searching for the right words, ‘old-fashioned’.
‘I know. And cheap.’
He suddenly bent forwards and peered at his new toy. He looked worried.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. He turned the computer round and showed me an empty screen. ‘I think the battery might have gone.’
I offered him my notepad. ‘Do you want to make a note to get yourself a new battery?’
Note
Taken from `The Young Country Doctor Book 6’ (Bilbury Pie) – by Vernon Coleman. To purchase a copy please CLICK HERE
Copyright Vernon Coleman 1995 and 2024
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