That Syncing Feeling..

According to Ford, the voice activated audio system installed in my car allows you to" Stay in touch every second you’re driving, with state-of-the-art Ford SYNC voice control and connectivity technology "

Apparently it lets you make and take mobile phone calls, hands-free, using the simplest voice commands. It can even read out text messages you’ve been sent. :)
This sounds awesome, and would indeed be a sight to behold.

Except that instead of an efficient friendly and helpful voice behind SYNC, mine has been installed with the rude tone of a slightly geriatric Ukrainian pensioner, whose hearing trumpet has been left back in her war ravaged hovel.

I have given her the name Olga. as it sounds nothing like SYNC.

"Call Glenn"
I pause while Olga checks her contact list.....
"Calling Tim"

Which is bizarre as I don't have a Tim in my contacts.

"Call Vets"
"Deleting contact: Vet"
Olga will need a vet when I've finished with her.....

"Play artist New Order"
Olga consults her enormous music reference manual....
"Playing Artist The Artist, formerly known as The Artist Prince"

I attempt to intervene with a touch of the steering wheel Sync button, to override her. Of course this just irritates my Soviet stowaway.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand that word" she petulantly retorts. 

Then promptly goes silent as she knits a sock for the cold Ukrainian winter.

I thought it might be my accent, eccentrically English though it may be, but still fairly well spoken and very BBC. 

Why, even Apple's Siri understands my commands.

Thankfully there is one "advanced" feature that, so far, (fingers and wires crossed) I have yet to have need of. 

It is delightfully called the Ford Emergency Assist.

In the event of an accident and the car is compromised, Sync will call the emergency services automatically using the linked bluetooth phone, and give GPS details of the location and request immediate help.

Though heaven knows how long it takes for a plumber from Kiev to reach New Zealand...

Are you still here?

Visual imperfections come as standard when you open the box marked Diabetes. Like Pandora's but containing not quite as much chocolate, replaced instead by Boots sugar free pastilles. The old eyes can be roundly defeated by the cavalier attitude of the pugnacious condition. 

So it was then then that the "blood" in my eye posed no real concern: it had happened before, and it would leave of it's own volition in due course.

Except it didn't. I noticed after a few days that there was none of the usual signs of departure. No dimming of intensity, no suitcase in the hall, No keys on the sideboard. The bloody thing (literally) had moved in.

It was like the early nineties all over again. Youthful  discoveries and clandestine hookups were rife in my 1990's London. One moment you were getting ready to go out and boogie with friends, the next you were catching the tube or bus home from some far flung outpost of the capital.

That was how it was then, and we all accepted the protocols. 

Now something had broken the traditional rules of engagement.

I could envisage it making breakfast and reading my newspaper. Soon it would be rearranging the furniture and distributing cheap ornaments around the place. No doubt from EYEKEA?? 

After a week of uninvited inconvenience I threatened to break off what had seemingly turned into a relationship. Visions of us growing old together hove into view. A life of garden centres, comfortable slippers, and pensioner coach trips beckoned.

A tense stand off ensued as I waived my insurance policy threateningly in it's face. It merely wafted on by, with a slightly irritated demeanour. 

However, a quick call to Southern Cross later, and I was soon under the knife of a doctor with more letters after his name than Sir Alex Douglas Haig, KT GCB OM GCVO KCIE ADC.....

Then after much eye squelching, it was all over, and our dalliance restored to normality

Swiftly floating away,  no doubt in time to catch the first available N'eye'ght Bus....

And so you're back, from outer space....

 
Why yes, the muse has returned! 

Having popped out for a cigarette break, the creative juices have been replenished.   Some break.

Actually the muse has had plenty of time to walk to Havana, grow it's own tobacco plant, carefully dry the leaf, then employ local Cubans, newly reconciled with Uncle Sam to hand deliver to the US embassy, to be flown via FedEx back to Auckland in time to hail a cab to Whangaparaoa to deliver inspiration!

Of course both I and the muse refrain from the evil weed! (Take note children....smoking = not good) 

Such a lot has prevailed during the last few months "off air", so to speak..

Positives
               :) Became a New Zealand citizen after 11 years!
               :) Bought a holiday home in Lake Rotoiti.
               :) Changed job after 7 years.

Not so Positives, (we like to call them opportunities)

               :) New car rear ended by brakeless nitwit.
               :) Not keen on new job (oh I admit it ...ex new job!) 
               :) No more negatives....ever.

Venturing into the more banal ....left eye developed a haemorrhage, which cost a private insurance co $12,000 to repair, but undoubtedly of more importance, I got to travel on a public train, unable to drive as I was.

Yes they do exist actually here in Auckland. 

The encounter was brief, hushed and illicit. 
A whispered exchange in the dead of night.
"Single to Britomart please"
"$2.50"
Money was hastily exchanged to be followed by a quick fumble in the dark.... Tickets please!

Whoosh, I was transported deliriously to the peak of Auckland and back.
It was all over far too soon, we parted ways, I cast a quick furtive look back. The train seemed to smoke a final goodbye and then was off, again retreating from whence it came.

Since that affair the eye is approaching normality, as indeed am I, back in the blogosphere.

Until our next encounter...

Top Gear?

It's not often that I stray into the realm of Jeremy Clarkson, what with him being a jingoistic petrol maniac amongst other things, but motoring matters have been somewhat foremost in my mind lately....

After owning two Peugeot hatchbacks for the last few years, I have embraced the world of Ford.
My last French motor, Le 207 GTi en noir, was so unpredictable it had to go ....

Our three year relationship was a fractious one.

"Bonjour" I would politely announce as I started the ignition and gently eased it into gear.

 "Hmmmph" (or more accurately L'hmmmmph).. Tyre Pressure warning...Tyre Pressure Warning...curiously, even though the tyres were at the correct PSI.

Attention! Engine Management System Failure! (There was nothing wrong with it, as the garage deduced, but not before charging me several hundred dollars for the pleasure)

One day the front passenger window decided not to open. I had simply depressed the switch, a simple enough request to action for a reasonable car....

Pah! you stuck up toffee nosed Englishman...(echoing the French Knights in Monty Python's Holy Grail)
You are no good, you cannot even say Ouvre la Fenetre....therefore I refuse to cooperate.

So for 2 years the window remained closed, eventually relying on a local mechanic emailing a UK friend of his, acquainted as he was with a contact who worked for Peugeot in Paris, in order get the unlock code for the car's computer.!!!

Yet at times, I worshipped and adored my little Gti: the style, the interior, the equipment, so Chic, so French.

And therein lies the problem. In New Zealand European cars are deemed expensive and not like the normal run of the mill Japanese marques, the armies of Swifts, Mazda 3's, the ....(Yawn.....!) Corolla.
Not such a problem if you own 2 tons of German Vorsprung durch Technik. But un petit Peugeot GTi? Merde!

Consequently Euro car's services are more expensive, as are the mechanics bills, spares, and labour costs. All of which means the ultimate resell figure, like a descending lift on the Eiffel Tower, plummets.

Therefore it was time to buy a NZ trusted Ford, and whilst my Ecosport  is not the most expensive car in the range, to me it is the top Ghia.

What is boohoo in French?

No, I'm fine really.......

In 1992 Opus III would have us believe that it was going to be a fine night tonight, and a fine day tomorrow, as can be evidenced by the fact that people were opening windows. This British house/techno dance tune encapsulated all that's modest and understated about the British mentality.
When stressed or angry, ill, or emotional (quite rare for Brits to get emotional - unless it's during the X factor finals), or just simply don't walk to talk, we Brits will always try to brush things off with "I'm fine", 

I too espouse the cliched vernacular, reassuring people that I'm fine. For example at the renal clinic this week, after being asked "how are things", I replied that things were just fine, thus bringing the conversation to a shuddering halt. 

For in English the phrase I'm fine often can be read as  "I don't want to talk".
On this occasion the answer was intended to keep the conversation as limited as possible, in order to avoid excessive parking charges!  

This leaning towards duplicity can be further seen in the following explanation of "British speak"...

1. “I'm fine” – I am moments away from a devastating mental collapse, so please leave me alone

2. “I’ll bear it in mind” – Let us never mention this again.

3. “I'm sure it’s my fault” – It’s your fault.

4. “Chuffed” – Experiencing heart-racing euphoria.

5. “Not too bad, actually” – I'm possibly the happiest I have ever been.

6. “A bit miffed” – I've been ripped apart by a tsunami of pain and sorrow.

7. “Down in the dumps” – Severe depressive episode.

8. “Under the weather” – Close to death.

9. “Gutted” – Suicidal.

10. “Peeved” – Consumed with rage.

11. “Can’t complain” – But I'm going to anyway.

12. “Oh dear” – A life-altering catastrophe has just occurred.

My particular favourite is number 10......