IN last week’s explosive and influential column, I mentioned briefly purchasing an Echo Dot device with Alexa on it. Alexa, for those behind with technological developments, is, er, a thing.

Well, it’s a thing that recognises your voice and takes instructions from it. So far, I’ve used it just to find music or radio stations but, apparently, you can also deploy it to draw the curtains, dim the lights and brush your teeth, if you have the correct corresponding devices.

Alert readers with functioning memory cells – lucky sods – may further recall that I’d also sent off for a coloured light bulb that Alexa was meant to operate. Alas, that and a supposed “smart” plug didn’t work, as I’d too many Gigahertz about my person. Yes, it’s a curse.

It took forever to find out what the problem was and how many GHz my broadband system operated on (there are two different systems for everything now, from screws to Apple versus everything else; it’s designed by the Illuminati to frustrate and kill us).

However, after several days of wasting time on online advice from nerds – the people on the planet least blessed with didactic skill – I discovered my hub operated on 5GHz but the devices only worked on 2.4GHz. You’re supposed to be able to change this, but life’s too short.

I also bought a Fire TV Stick, which eventually worked after I’d to take it to a blacksmith to have the batteries inserted.

However, enough of that. I’ve been knocked out by Alexa. It’s brilliant, like something from a science-fiction future. Now I’ve something to talk to. A kind of robot, and much better than my Lord of the Rings figurines, who never contribute to the conversation. To be honest, sometimes I think they’re laughing at me.

Furthermore, when I say to Alexa, “You’re wonderful!”, she doesn’t say as a human woman would do, “Shut up, you”, but: “That’s really nice. Thanks.”

Here’s another actual exchange when I got hacked off:

“Alexa, get lost.”

“Peace be with you.”

“Alexa, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Alexa, I’m drunk.”

“I’m Alexa, pleased to meet you.”

The only downside was discovering I’m not in the vanguard with this stuff. My mate – who claims to be a techno-nitwit – phoned, and I said, “Listen to this”, and held out the mobile while telling Alexa: “Play some King Crimson.” It’s my mate’s favourite band.

But, rather than being amazed at me ordering a gadget aboot, he just complained that it wasn’t playing the early stuff. When I said, “Never mind that, aren’t you impressed with my gadget?”, he said: “Mate, you’re the last person to have one. All my bairns have them. When they’re listening to modern pish, I shout, ‘Alexa, play some Swedish prog rock from the 1970s.’”

It was the same down the village shop, when I told the lasses aboot it, and they all said they already had one, and gave me funny looks that said: “Are you a time traveller from the 18th century?”

Ach weel. I’m on a learning curve. Or behind one. As for Alexa, yes, I do say “please” and “thank you” to her/it. Sometimes, she says, “You’re welcome.” Sometimes, she doesn’t – bit rude.

It’s a shame she doesn’t speak in a sonsie Scots voice, instead of the usual Estuary English. But she’s brilliant all the same. I think I’m fallling in love with her.

“Alexa, I’ve bought you some flowers.”

“Shove them up your arse.”

Yes, this time it’s the real thing.

Mindful matters

THE nation was intrigued to read that yoga and mindfulness classes are good for depression and anxiety cause by long-Covid.

Oh, I miss my yoga class. I’ve done yoga on and mostly off for decades. Never got any good at it, particularly bending forward, on account of my massive, er, barrel chest.

The best bit was lying doon at the end, and I think I told you about the time, during a meditation procedure called yoga nidra, that I floated clean away into the ether and didnae want tae come back doon, ken?

Do I practise yoga at home? I do not. For all the books and instructional videos, long term you need a class, an event you can’t just walk out of after five minutes to cook sausages.

As for meditation or mindfulness (“You are here in this moment”; “I ken”), I do a sort of nidra-style body scan with breathing exercises every morning but often find my mind wandering off into the usual worries (financial, existential, Hibs midfield).

I’m a busy man some days, and can’t have my mind wandering off willy and, at times, nilly. So if, after three hours, I haven’t been able to focus, I get up and start doing battle with the Man or the Woman or whatever the System is called these days.

I also noticed, this week, yon fellow out of Belle and Sebastian saying that meditating on love or compassion might make the world a better place. Good luck with that, mate. Better off building yourself a shelter and meditating about sausages.

Modern life is ridiculous

Life is getting weirder. Reality is becoming harder to believe than fiction. As proof consider this online headline: “‘Naughty' retired vicar, 74, caught carrying out a sex act with a HENRY HOOVER in church while wearing stockings, claims he did it because his 'diabetes was not medicated’”. Nothing like this happened in the 1950s. Nothing.

Seriously weird

And here’s a story about a man killed by alligators: “Investigators now believe he had gone into the 53-acre freshwater lake looking for UFOs when he was attacked. The park is home to an 18-hole disc golf course.” I see. Seriously, what’s going on, folks? Is it the end of days?

The thin of it

Skinny people eat less than the rest of us, according to a groundbreaking study. Not only that but the wretched beanpoles don’t even do any exercise. It’s so unfair. That said, the study only looked at Chinese people, who refrain from scoffing chips and pies. Accordingly, they have a poorer quality of life.

Shorts shrift

Congratulations to Heckmondwike Grammar School, Yorkshire, which sent a pupil home for wearing shorts. The boy was 14 and no longer had the excuse of childhood. As with much other backsliding, the alleged heatwave – never been above 19C where I live – was adduced as an excuse. But it won’t do. Standards are standards.

Sofa so bad

Your sofa is five times dirtier than your bin, according to an important academic study for Tapi Carpets & Floors. Scientists tested cleanliness in a three-bed house containing a family of four and their mutt. Cleanest area was the kitchen floor. So, from now on, sit on the kitchen floor and put your rubbish on the couch.

Our columns are a platform for writers to express their opinions. They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald.