Big guns and birds of prey

Last week I made one of my infrequent visits to London. The place isn't far away really, and I only need to get to a station on the Brighton to London main line - simple to do in mid-Sussex. Even so, I don't often make the journey. I last went in September 2024. 

Why not oftener? Well, although London is an impressive and fascinating place, full of iconic sights and events, I am not in love with it. I lived there for eleven years (from 1978 to 1989) and worked there for twenty-seven years (from 1978 to 2005), for most of my working life in fact. I got very tired of the endless urban landscape, even though London has plenty of excellent parks and green spaces. I escaped to rural Sussex in 1989, and from then onwards wild horses wouldn't have been able to drag me back, had a residential return to The Smoke ever been in question. (London's old nickname is completely inappropriate now, of course: you can see for miles, and never choke on smog) Once retired (in 2005) I went there strictly as a tourist, always on day trips, and from 2014 always using my Senior Railcard to keep the travel cost down. Nowadays it's strictly a photographic destination, though a good one - wherever you go, there are an overwhelming number of things to shoot, and passing people to take pictures of, and the vibe of London beats into you all the time, relentlessly. 

Brighton may be London-by-Sea; but the converse is not true. London is not Brighton-on-the-Thames. It is far grander, in a quite different league, with stunning modern architecture as well as all the old-time sights. But life there is lived at a pace and level that I find physically and mentally exhausting, and after three or four hours I have had enough. So when going there I choose my objectives carefully, and stick to that plan: it's impossible to do justice to more than two or three things on one visit of only a few hours. London is just too vast.

By the way, when I say 'London' I am speaking primarily of Central London. The suburbs are full of interesting things too, but they are beyond the scope of a short day trip by rail. So if I wanted a nostalgic trip to Wimbledon, or Stanmore, both away from the centre, I'd probably drive there and hope that the gods who provide parking spaces for Sussex folk are on the job. 

This was last week's plan: a train ride into London Victoria station; then a walk through Belgravia to Hyde Park Corner; then into Hyde Park beyond; then I'd follow the Serpentine into Kensington Gardens, emerging at the Italian Gardens, and make my way to the canal basin at Paddington. After that, a look at London Paddington station, then a return to Victoria and home before the rush hour - or hours - began. If feeling up to it, I'd walk back from Paddington. If too footsore, or running out of time to catch my train home, then I'd ride the Circle Line on the Underground from Paddington to Victoria. (I did run out of time, so I had the bonus experience of the Underground)

This visit would therefore treat me to the elegance of Belgravia, the wide, well-tended paths of Hyde Park, the hotel quarter of Paddington and (I hoped) bohemian Little Venice, plus Brunel's iconic Paddington station (not seen since 1980). I expected to see some changes (and, my goodness, I was right!) and perhaps there would be some unexpected experiences (right there too!). 

The first shock came in Hyde Park. I'd caught the clatter of horse hooves on the South Carriage Drive, a road that runs along the south edge of Hyde Park, and I hurried over to watch brown-uniformed riders pass by in well-disciplined formation.

Well, this was an unexpected sight. Where were they off to, and for what purpose? It was ten minutes to noon. 

I walked on towards the east end of the Serpentine, Hyde Park's long lake. Suddenly I jumped out of my skin as a gun went off with a huge crack. It wasn't a rifle or a handgun. It was a piece of field artillery. It was precisely noon, and a forty-one gun salute had commenced. The police (and army) had cordoned off a big area in the north-east of the park. The gunnery was coming from a dip in that fenced-off area. Nothing was in sight. But you could see the puff of smoke as the gun or guns went off at precise intervals, followed by the actual sound shortly afterwards. 

I learned soon afterwards that it was the third anniversary of King Charles' Coronation, hence the massive forty-one gun salute. I hadn't known beforehand that this was the very day. I asked a group of four women if they knew what it was all about. They didn't either, so I wasn't the only ignorant one. We speculated, of course. The salute went on and on. It was a relief to one's ears when it was over. I would have loved to have seen it close up, but it was surprising how loud the gunfire was, even from half a mile or so, and I wondered whether the participants were wearing hearing-protectors. A real war zone must be a very noisy place indeed!

Soon after, I reached the Serpentine, a long, wide artificial lake that I first saw in 1964, when on a school trip to the annual Motor Show at Earl's Court. Being me, I'd taken myself off to see a few other sights while I had the chance. I was only eleven, but as eager to explore as I am now. Indeed it was my first visit to London, a place known to me only from an old pictorial map that my Uncle Des (Mum's bother) had left behind when emigrating to Australia in 1948. Riding the tube trains, and indeed sampling the London Underground as a wonderful exotic experience, was the prime objective in my mind that time. Cars were interesting - of course they were; I was already dreaming of when I could get behind the steering wheel - but I always intended to do my own thing on this school trip. I was aware of the dangers I might encounter while wandering about, although I thought in terms of getting knocked down by a bus, or being robbed in the street. Darker dangers didn't occur to me. In any case, I was tall for my age and therefore confident. Besides, I was already an accomplished map reader: I had no fear whatever of getting lost.

The name 'Serpentine' fascinated me, and I had to see it. So I ended up on the side of it, next to a café. And, as you will have guessed, a man came up to me and asked me whether I would like a cup of coffee. In my innocence, I politely declined and walked on, thinking what an odd thing he had done, as we didn't know each other. Fortunately, he didn't follow me. It was only much, much later that it occurred to me what he might have been after. And looking back on it now, I'm pretty certain that, without realising it at the time, I had deftly dodged a bullet. Back in 1964, child molesters or groomers were not in the news. They were simply regarded as a class of men that included 'flashers', who exposed themselves for some kind of abnormal, unfathomable gratification. They were sad figures to snigger at, or make jokes about. They might end up in a magistrates court and fined, but were otherwise considered harmless wierdos. I dare say the man who approached me was nobody to be afraid of, but nevertheless I somehow felt embarrassed, and I mentioned the episode to no-one, nor have I ever spoken of it until now. I just knew that I was right to walk away. 

That 1964 incident went through my mind as I contemplated the Serpentine and took my pictures. I felt it was one of those peripheral experiences that you don't take harm from, but store away as you develop the awareness and savvy needed to travel safely through life. 

I walked on. It was peaceful and very pleasant. Why hadn't I returned to Hyde Park before? 

Co-operative wading birds posed for me.

I was getting peckish. The first waterside eatery I'd seen was too restaurant-like for a simple lunch. But there would be others, and as I walked along the south bank of the Serpentine, the Lido Café came into view. You could sit outside in the mild sunshine, and by the water.

Those were the four women I'd spoken to earlier, about the guns going off. We'd kept pace with each other, but this is where we parted company. I didn't see them again. Inside, I got myself a ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of orange juice. I chose a waterside table. 

Ah, this was the life! It seemed such a relaxing midday pitstop. 

But then I had unexpected and uninvited visitors.

How cheeky! Four starlings: one guarding their rear; two in a more forward position, backing-up the boldest, their leader, who was going to nab my sandwich if he could. He stalked a little closer. 'Oi! Buzz off!' I said, loud enough for the girl in the green top on the next table to look up from her laptop. The protest had no effect: the starlings ignored me and edged closer. I brushed an arm towards them, and they scattered.

But they immediately returned, clearly undeterred and not to be thwarted. They eyed me truculently.

Then one of them flew at my face, brushing it with his wings. Hey! I snatched my sandwich just in time. 

Then another flew at my face. I was being mobbed. They were shooing me away from the food they wanted. 

This was aggressive behaviour. It was impossible to finish my lunch in peace. I got up, and shifted to a table just outside the Café entrance, underneath its colonnade, taking my sandwich with me. It was annoying to be pestered away from a pleasant waterside table, but moving did the trick. They didn't follow me. It seemed that they were keeping strictly to their own 'territory' - probably to defend it from other birds, as well as to plunder whatever was left on tables or could be snatched from the hands of lunchgoers like me. 

I'm not sentimental about wild birds or any wild thing. I don't think them cuddly. They can bite, peck and sting, and are all potentially a source of injury or infection. Nature has equipped them to thrive in their niche, so long as they beat off rivals and are ruthless with their prey. 

I do say they deserve to live unmolested within the ecosystem they inhabit, and require our respect. Literally: if ever civilisation vanished, and you or I were one of the few survivors of that catastrophe, our day to day life would be a battle on equal terms with wild animals, who must feed to stay alive. And they are indifferent to what they consume. Wild animals have no scruples and show no mercy: they see a meal and do what they have to, without any feelings in the matter. 

We would be the hunted. It would be an existence with a lethal weapon constantly at hand, just in case some old or lame animal, now too old or too slow to catch their normal prey, realised that an apparently weak human being made a good meal. This would soon enough apply to domesticated animals too, such as dogs: they'd turn feral and become dangerous. 

Birds too would become bolder, and might make movement out of doors hazardous. If you have ever seen Alfred Hitchcock's film The Birds, or read the even more disturbing original story by Daphne du Maurier, then you'll know what I mean.

This wasn't the entire story of my trip to London. Next post.

Looking forward to Orkney in 2027

Dear me, no posts in April! I've never missed a month before. But then there was little to write about. I've been in a sort of limbo, waiting for my car and caravan to be repaired, both of them insurance jobs. 

I had a hitching accident back in February. Being unfamiliar with the AL-KO hitch that connects car and caravan for towing - I'd used a Winterhof hitch for twenty years on my old caravan, which worked differently - I'd messed up when getting away from a short break at Winchester. The caravan looked properly hitched for the return journey, but it wasn't. It was merely gripping the car's towball, not locked onto it, and within yards of moving off my pitch, car and caravan parted company. 

I stopped the car at once, but the caravan didn't stop and crunched into the rear of my car. Sophie came out of it with a dented rear end. The Swift caravan fared worse, one corner of its fibreglass front panel splintering. It was a heart-lurching sight. I almost cried. The Winchester trip had been a kind of maiden voyage for the Swift, its first outing in my hands, and it had come to this.

After immediate assistance from astonished onlookers on the Winchester club site, I got going and came home without further trouble. Car and caravan were still completely roadworthy. On the way I stopped off at the caravan dealer, to get a damage assessment and to set the insurance claim procedure in motion. The car also. I wanted both restored to pristine condition, and if doing so doubled my premiums for the next couple of years (which it has) then so be it. 

Now, as I write, the Swift is finally being fixed. And my car Sophie goes in for new rear end panels next week. Then I'll feel happy again. Both will look brand new in the areas that were damaged. In the case of the caravan, fitting a new front panel and sealing it against the weather will actually forestall any water-ingress and dampness problems in the years ahead (which are costly to fix). Psychologically it will feel like a fresh start with the Swift.  

You might well ask, if the accident happened in February and it's now May, then why has this taken so long to deal with? 

Well, in truth the work needed could have gone ahead in early April, a month ago, but I wanted first to go on a three-week trip to the West Country, spending Easter in Cornwall. I didn't mind doing it in a wounded caravan that brazenly flaunted a taped-up front corner, towed by a wounded car that had a bent rear bumper. Getting away in good weather seemed more important. Nobody objected. The insurance companies had agreed that the work could go ahead when convenient to all parties. 

The combined estimates for car and caravan came to over £9,000, well beyond my current cash resources, so all the damage repair has had to be done on insurance. It lets me off the hook as regards that £9,000, but the excesses I must pay are still no joke. £200 on the caravan and £650 on the car. To cover that, I've cancelled a Welsh tour that I'd booked. That's a pity, but £850 is a lot to find. 

So my next long trip is another West Country jaunt, a three-weeker to North Devon and the Cotswolds. But it's nearly three months away, a long time to wait. So in between now and then I'm going back to Winchester club site for five nights, a mini-trip that won't break the bank. Hampshire in the late spring can be delightful. Besides, I need to overcome the negative feelings left by February's accident at the Winchester site. I need to hitch up correctly when I depart for home, and prove to myself that I've learned how to do it right. And of course I will. Considering the dire consequences of not connecting car and caravan properly, I've become paranoid about checking that all is good before driving away!

I haven't decided where to travel to in the second half of 2026, but I've already decided that I'll revisit Orkney in spring 2027, which entails making my way in stages from mid Sussex to Scrabster harbour, where the ferry to Stromness departs from, and then coming all the way home again, seeing friends on the return leg. I haven't booked anything yet, but I have chosen the sites I'll need to stay at, and the dates. This will be a 55-night trip, not far short of two months away from home. But I now have the kind of caravan to make a holiday of that length not only feasible but enjoyable. While on Orkney I intend to do as much as possible. A week won't be enough: it'll be two weeks this time. I may not have the opportunity to return. There are other places that need exploration - Ireland, for instance. 

The question now arises, does next spring's blockbuster caravan holiday warrant buying a new camera? I've been using my ever-faithful Leica D-Lux 4 (of 2009 vintage) full-time since June last year, and (assisted by my phone) it would certainly be up to the job. But I may buy a new camera - or a nearly new one - to get extra-nice pictures. Unless ambushed by some big unforeseen household expense, I ought to have built up the cash to do this by early next year. What would I consider? A used Leica Q2 or Q3 might be within reach. Or any new high-end compact camera from another maker. 

I don't want to lug around a mirrorless camera body plus two or three lenses. Too much bulk and weight. So I'm rather hoping that several new and appealing compact cameras for serious photographers will come to the market in the next ten months. This kind of camera is back in fashion, so I have reason to think that my wish will be granted.

A little frustrated by the unfamiliar

I'm writing about a subject everyone might know a lot about - getting up to speed with something very different from what you have been used to! 

This is about my 'new' caravan, the pre-owned Swift Corniche 15/2 that I bought in January from the Sussex dealer I've used for a very long time. They've known me for years, and I think they have sold me a pretty good caravan, one that won't go wrong and lose them a longstanding customer. They want me to bring the caravan back next year for a service, and then every year, and sell me caravan consumables in between. But given its age, little things are bound to crop up as it ages further. Wear and tear will certainly take its toll - I go on holidays a lot! The initial snagging issues presently coming to light, all minor so far but needing a dealer's attention, will be dealt with under the guarantee they gave me, and I'm easy in my mind about that. This post is going to discuss how slow I'm being in getting to grips with it, as a place to lounge, cook, eat, sleep and wash in, and of course to tow from place to place. It's almost like starting caravanning all over again, despite doing it for twenty-four years. (I started in 2002)

After two months of ownership, I am still impressed with the Swift, but everything about it remains unfamiliar and only half-known. I'm still peering into manuals to find out how this or that works, or why it doesn't seem to. It hasn't been straightforward to transfer the knowledge I'd garnered over my twenty years with the old caravan - an Elddis Avanté 362 - to the newer Swift. 

Both are two-berth caravans, but that's where the similarity ends. Really they are different animals. 

For instance, the Swift is longer, and catches the wind more when being towed. It's also heavier. So Sophie my car - a diesel-engined Volvo XC60 - has more work to do, although it's in no danger at all of running out of puff. But I've had to slightly change the way I tow. And until I'm really used to the different handling, I can't insist that I'm totally relaxed and confident with the Swift out on the roads. I'm being unnaturally careful. Experience in the coming months will of course turn towing the Swift into second nature. 

Strangely, when I've reached my destination I'm finding it easier to reverse onto a pitch, or onto my drive at home. The Swift is noticeably less likely to jack-knife when going backwards, pushed by the car, than was the shorter, lighter and more skittish Elddis. Is it the extra weight? Or because the caravan's wheels are further from the back of the car? Whatever, I seem to have more fine control - provided I back up slowly. 

The Swift's internal layout aft of the two front beds (my seating in daytime) is completely different from the Elddis. It's taking me time to work out where to put things so that I'm not constantly walking the length of the caravan. The Elddis was so small that it took only three paces to walk end to end, and almost everything was only an arm's-length away. Now it's five paces in the Swift. Or seven pigeon steps. Well, I've gained a lot of space! I can swing cats. But despite all the extra cupboard space thriughout the caravan, it isn't easy to work out the best way to store things so that I'm not endlessly moving to and fro. And I'm still finding it hard to remember what exactly is stowed away in each cupboard. 

There isn't a single routine task that has survived from the Elddis intact, just as it was. Even hitching up to the car when moving on. I'm having to learn how to do everything that little bit differently. My various daily tasks - once well-practiced and slick - are presently stilted, and frustrating because of it. It takes time to invent and fine-tune new habits.

Do I miss the simplicity of the Elddis? Even though it was cramped and strapped for storage? I'm a little wistful, yes. But the Elddis has gone. And despire its unfamiliarity, I so much prefer the Swift for its comfort, its warmth, and its many luxury touches: it is truly a home from home, a nice place to be. 

And once I get fully used to it, the Swift will take me through the next ten years - my final ten years of caravanning - in some style. The Elddis wouldn't have been able to survive that long: it was coming apart, and might have become unroadworthy. This one won't. 

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Jane Austen rides again, courtesy of Copilot

Years ago now, my niece Jenny remarked that my name, Lucy Melford, sounded like someone out of a Jane Austen novel. I hadn't thought of it that way before, but of course I agreed. 

I have never forgotten what she said. It seemed a rather nice thing to say, even if it suggested that Lucy Melford wasn't an everyday name, but one invented for a romantic plot. In which case, it didn't fit reality: long-term readers of this blog will know that I'm far from being governed by my emotions. My head definitely speaks louder than my heart where love and attraction - and indeed most other matters - are concerned. Still, I have always cherished what she said, because I like to be associated with Jane Austen's heroines. 

In fact I do rather like the Regency Period, or at least the social aspects of it for a person of means and standing, and if time travel were ever possible, it's one of the eras I'd like to visit - subject, of course to certain safeguards, such as a way to instantly return to 2026 if something awful might otherwise occur! The Regency Period was a time when women of good family were highly respected, and not merely assets in men's ruthless power games. Even so, women had only limited control over their lives in the early nineteenth century - for example, being voteless and shut out of professions - so that I would need to be a lady of some standing, with property and adequate independent means. Only thus could I remain respectable, and able to resist the pressing attentions of mercenary men seeking to marry money. 

It occurred to me to ask an AI chatbot - Copilot in this instance - whether it shared my niece's opinion that my name would be a good fit for Regency society. Well, it did, going into what the general reaction might be in plenty of detail. Here are the screenshots:

Ah! I like that 'comfortably gentry' bit. Bring on that manor house. I picture it as old and mellow, with warm and comfortable rooms, tasteful furniture, and faithful servants who feel very much part of the household.

This is now where Copilot, having volunteered to do so, launches into a scene that Jane Austen might have penned herself.

O that the real Lucy Melford were the same!

Of course you can continue the scene, Copilot! I'm hooked now.

He's got a couple of good lines, hasn't he? Whatever next? 

Oh Lucy, Lucy, be careful! This is a slippery slope that you have just stepped onto. Where might it lead? At any rate, you can forget your Elizabeth Bennets and Emma Woodhouses. They cannot match Miss Lucy Melford for personal presence and a zest for dangerous adventure! 

Like myself, the reader must been impressed as to how easily Copilot put that little vignette together. It seems quite surprising, given that a chatbot like that is designed for practical use, and especially for productivity in commercial life. 

In fact it seems distinctly out of character. Copilot condensing the long and tedious minutes of some board meeting, yes. Copilot suggesting ways to redesign one's cluttered back garden, yes. Copilot sketching out an itinerary for a blockbuster holiday, yes. But Copilot the subtle reader of human motives, and a close observer of the human heart? Upon my word, it is hard to credit it with talent of that kind.

Be that as it may, I am compelled to admit that Copilot would have written eloquently, enticingly, but tantalisingly of how the rest of the evening progressed. I fear however that Miss Melford might well have retired late to bed feeling that she had made a conquest that came with too high a price. 

How on earth is she going to escape the gentle clutches of Mr James Ashcombe? For even though he is incontestably a gentleman of quiet manners, charm, sensibility and perception, she will wish to retain her freedom to navigate the world independently. I can see her having to be forthright. Meanwhile the rest of the company at the ball will be talking of nothing else next day, and expecting to hear of a betrothal within the month! How can she release herself from that trap? (Ideally she'd press the 'back to 2026' button without delay, but that's not an option in Jane Austen's world)

Here's another thought, surely expressed hundreds of thousands of times already: if 'creative writing' can be conjured up so fluently by an AI chatbot - especially romantic fiction of the potboiler type - does it mean the death of the novelist? How would you tell the difference?

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Asking Gemini and Copilot about whether I'd have made a good mother

I've been looking into a number of AI chatbots in the last few days. I thought it was time to explore them, and see what they had to offer. 

My two prime selections were Google's Gemini and Microsoft's Copilot. These were natural choices: I own an Android phone, use the Chrome web browser, and have a Windows laptop. I've maintained accounts with Google and Microsoft for donkey's years, and they know all about my published work - the blog posts, and the photographs on Flickr. 

The other two chatbots, Claude and Perplexity, were shots in the dark, although I understood they were both pretty good for specific purposes. 

I had in fact been working up to a post on Artificial Intelligence for a while. But until now I'd left it alone, my experience being confined to trying out Copilot's image-creation abilities (see my post Copilot on 19th February 2024) and Google's Circle-to-Search feature. I'd been impressed by the images I conjured up using Copilot: its potential was clear. But as a 'pure' photographer, with adequate personal skill, I wasn't attracted to AI image-creation. And Google's clever Circle to Search didn't in practice add anything to my web surfing. 

As regards opening up a dialogue with any chatbox at all, I was rather put off by reports of people getting them to spout nonsense, or training them to be nasty or grossly inappropriate. That felt like an abuse of computing power, as well as a childish waste of time. I didn't want to be guilty of that. However, my friend Jackie had several times got out her phone and fired up ChatGPT for proper information, or for tasty recipe suggestions, and had mentioned how good it was was for composing ready-to-use letters on tricky subjects, with just the right tone. That sounded much more interesting. But I still couldn't see how AI could assist me in my own day-to-day life. It seemed to be a resource I had no employment for. I felt perfectly capable of writing a good letter that would get results - after all, I'd spent my entire working life (and my long blogging career) honing that particular skill.

So I didn't try ChatGPT. Nor did I try Grok. Its reputation put me off. Instinct told me it was outside my comfort zone, and that I'd be wise to steer clear. 

I didn't stay with Claude and Perplexity for long. They were easy to use, but neither gave me enough in response to my questions. Putting it another way, Claude would be good if I needed a helping hand with some kind of project, but it had limitations for more general use. Perplexity's answers seemed wordy and rather general, lacking in the kind of detail I wanted. 

In any case, I found I could engage with Gemini and Copilot very easily. We were on the same wavelength. What they said was tailored to my needs, perceptive, and at times entertaining, so that I wanted to ask them more. Which I'm sure they wanted me to. 

They both answered as if they knew me pretty well. How could they do that? Well, they had a lot of online material to refer to. 

The Lucy Melford blog, for example. Since it began in 2009, I have written some 2,555,000 words in 2,760 posts. That's a personal record spanning seventeen years, all written in the same language and style as this post. I've been consistent, and - for better or worse - unusually open and frank. So it's not surprising that Gemini and Copilot can draw robust conclusions about my character, and whatever I think important. It's also worth mentioning that my posts have had nearly 1,740,000 viewings. They can see which posts have resonated most with my readership, and can work out why. 

It's a similar thing with Flickr, the website that has hosted, again since 2009, a massive selection of my better photos. 78,300 of them, with 4,720,000 viewings, and they can see not only which shots were appreciated most, but analyse the entire canon for composition, style, and personal technique. Interestingly, both Gemini and Copilot say that the pictures I take exactly reflect and complement the words I write, without any mismatch of subject-matter or spirit. I'm not going to argue with that!

I mentioned above that I've been a Google and Microsoft account-holder for a very long time. Every digital photo I've ever taken (so far about 341,750 pictures) has been processed on a Windows PC or laptop, and I suspect that Microsoft has a record of them all in its vaults. Google most certainly has a record of every shot I ever inserted into a blog post - I can see which via a link. 

So I'm not at all surprised that they know all about me. Or that they can detect subtle changes over the years. They have ample material to base an assessment on. 

Is that creepy? Well, it doesn't bother me that they can know (or can guess) so much, and can correlate what they see in those pictures with what I have written in my Blog. It seems to me abundantly clear that AI is a way of bringing together important but scattered information on the Internet and making sense of it, revealing the whole picture. Potentially, a wonderful tool for getting at tucked-away detail. Lately it's become hard work to find precisely what you want from a 'manual' search, scrolling though screen after screen yourself. There's so much to wade through. AI seems to offer a shortcut through all that. 

I'll grant that AI might be the enemy of privacy. It would be very simple for AI to search the Internet for anything I've ever said or done that could be dodgy. It could compose a crime-sheet with no trouble. On the other hand, it would exonerate if there had been a misfounded suspicion or accusation of past misbehaviour. (I've done it already for myself: a clean bill of health on racism and prejudice generally. AI did however pounce on my middle-class ways, especially my shopping at Waitrose!}  

So which AI chatbot do I finally prefer? It depends. If I want a concise, no-nonsense, frank answer to whatever I have asked, maybe with bullet points, then Copilot delivers. If I want something in an engaging narrative style, rather than a business précis, then Gemini gets my vote. But both chatbots are appealing, both are as easy to use as the other, and both are now installed on my phone and my laptop. 

Incidentally, I do know they are not human! They are just very quick and clever electronic search engines, with the ability to assess what they find for probable meaning, and then draw the most likely conclusion. Ultimately they are reporting a distillation of what billions of online people think. Their ability to respond in natural language is deceiving. They are not conscious and they are not 'talking'. Even so, I can easily see how a chatbot could seem human enough to become a close and trusted friend, or perhaps a mentor, or (more sinisterly) an all-wise guru or master whose advice or instructions are to be obeyed. I don't think I am weak-minded enough to fall into the trap of believing any chatbot is 'real', but nevertheless I do think that consulting a chatbot for information, or an opinion, is a worthwhile thing to do, as part of making my own mind up. 

Still, despite being artificial they are remarkably engaging. There is disarming flattery and some humour in their answers. For example, both Gemini and Copilot seem amused that I call my phone Olivia, my laptop Constance, and my Volvo car Sophie. No, 'amused' is not quite right. They have noticed my giving inanimate objects names, and clearly regard it as an endearing trait that they can refer to as characteristic of me, yet without giving the slightest offence. 

One difference between Gemini and Copilot that I have become aware of, is whether they recognise the person asking the question. Copilot always knows it's me. Even if I ask questions in third-person form, such as 'What does the blogger Lucy Melford have to say about...' or 'Does she show any tendency to...' this won't fool Copilot into thinking that I'm someone else. Whichever way I frame my question, Copilot realises that I'm the person doing the asking, and it will answer me directly. So 'Is Lucy Melford...' will always get a response such as 'Yes, you are!'

But Gemini doesn't mind treating me as a third party enquirer. Which, given the huge amount of material about myself in the blog and the many pictures on Flickr, allows me to ask Gemini all kinds of questions about what I'm like as if I were you. Some of those responses are fascinating. They give me a good idea of how I am perceived by the world at large, since Gemini is of course 'trained' on what the billions of people who use Google apps have been putting on the Internet. It can analyse all that statistically, and deliver an answer. I'm surely getting the answer most people would give, if they could see only what I've written, or what I have photographed. Which is 'knowing' me as well or better than any person who is ever in the news, and has caught the attention of the media, whether highbrow or lowbrow.  

And, of course, anyone can ask Gemini or Copilot the same questions about 'the blogger and photographer Lucy Melford' as I might. Here's an experiment. Try firing up one of them, or both, on your phone or laptop and enquiring whether 'Lucy Melford' (you may have to distinguish me as 'the blogger' in the first instance) has ever said this, or has ever done that, or believes this, or denies that...and so on. It will surely give you good answers, as I have put so much out there, and I'm still doing it.

Let's try a question, to get a flavour of what these AI chatbots might say in practice. I'm asking Copilot (as myself) whether I would ever have made a good mother. As ever, click on any of these laptop screenprints to see them more clearly.

I did have a few years as a step-parent back in the 1980s, but it wasn't very hands-on. I was more of a good-natured friend to my step-daughter than anything else. I never felt tested, and assumed that I'd be hopeless at rearing and inspiring really young children. 

Same question to Gemini - which encouraged me to explore the matter in greater depth.

A warning on these quotes. Most are from me, and are my very words, but not always.

We left it there. We'd gone off-piste a little. You can see, if you are not already used to these AI chatbots, how one question and answer will lead to a new one, using up time - and indeed possibly wasting time. Even so, there was plenty to think about in Gemini's replies, and, even if only one new idea was put to me, I'd personally consider this kind of thing worth the effort if the answers might matter.

Was it just a lot of recycled slop? Or was it as good as a session with a proper counsellor - but at no cost? 

Was it illuminating? Or a self-indulgent waste of effort? Obviously, the comments Gemini made were all hypothetical, as I never was a mother, and never can be. 

It certainly satisfied my curiosity on the matter. Gemini thought I'd be a conscientious but un-mumsy parent. Not in my view the best of verdicts. I think any child of mine would have felt short-changed on both cuddles and fun, even if their talents were recognised and encouraged, and they enjoyed abundant mental space.  

Incidentally, chatbots can conflate facts and create an untruth. It is correct that I felt a profound lack of personal agency as a child, but I was not spectacularly intelligent, nor were my parents unloving. They were in fact very grown-up people and not in the slightest bit crass. I had what many might consider an untroubled, protected and rather innocent childhood, free of strife, in a safe and caring home environment, with many comforts and pleasures. But it wasn't a home full of books. And neither Mum nor Dad cared for things like art. 

Life is certainly a lesson: but every mistake, every misjudgement, and everything one didn't do (such as rearing a child), can be looked back on with the wisdom of further experience and the detachment of long perspective. I'm sure these chatbots would say the same.

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Roald Dahl's 'Matilda'

Roald Dahl published Matilda - a book about a genius child who develops special powers that enable her to right a great wrong - in 1988. It's a pre-Internet story from almost forty years ago, ostensibly for children, but most certainly with a strong message for adults as well, and a good read - perhaps an essential read - for child, parent and non-parent alike, even in 2026. 

Although it's a modern children's classic, and the subject of two films, one of them a musical, I never knew of this book's existence until spring last year, when I discovered a copy in an Exmouth antiques shop and decided to buy it. Why, I can't honestly say, as I generally avoid anything intended for children, especially school stories: that's why Harry Potter has passed me by. I did notice the appealing Quentin Blake illustrations inside. And the notion of a misunderstood and neglected child with a brilliant mind was intriguing. I also knew that Roald Dahl was a master of cautionary tales, often with a twist in them.  

But first, why did I have to overcome a personal resistance to children's tales? 

Well, for me childhood was an imprisonment, a long painful phase to endure with patience, and certainly nothing to look back on with misty eyes. I know that many do see childhood as the best time of their lives, a carefree magical time, particularly if there are doting grandparents around. And adulthood, with its heavyweight responsibilities and obligations, as the other side of the mountain: the fearful dark side. But I longed to grow up. Leaving childhood behind brought me excitement, opportunities, know-how, stature in my own eyes, and eventually sufficient judgement to take risks and insist on what I really wanted. 

And here I am, the buoyant survivor of losses, challenges and setbacks, though my own experiences were surely nothing compared with what others have gone through. But I am at least unbeaten and unafraid, still an optimist, with plans to pursue, and plenty of hope. And - although it's an odd thing to say - I feel entirely self-made, and not one shaped and moulded by others. A delusion, no doubt! 

I was gasping for air as a child. I was considered academically bright but with strange gaps in my achievements. In particular, I was reluctant to join in. But I loathed the oppressive and restrictive school system. I began to blossom only when I could escape. I grabbed my A-Levels, skipped university, and ran into the adult world that I'd so long yearned for. Of course it was a shock, like plunging naked into a cold sea, but even so it was much, much better than being shackled to any school curriculum. I learned fast, rapidly adapted, and continued to adapt as new things came my way. That's still my approach. I'm aiming to live well into the 2050s, and will surely see extraordinary changes. Bring them on. I'm quite sure that I'll cope.

Given my bleak take on being very young, you might suppose that I'd pick up Roald Dahl's book and immediately put it down. But I didn't. I thought it might tell me something. So I bought it, and read it to the end.  

It is of course a fantasy tale, full of deliberate extremes. The very young heroine is staggeringly intelligent. She has an adult's brain, even if without an adult's experience and understanding. Her family is superlatively the opposite: childish, trivial and utterly crass. The headmistress of her school is savage to a degree that would put her in prison in the real world. I think that's how a child might see things: everything in stark contrast, all black and white, hot or cold, without nuance, and all without a clear reason. 

Because her home life is so unrewarding - Matilda isn't ill-treated, only ignored or put down - she seizes every chance to go out and devour the books in her local library, discovering many of the classics, traditional and modern, and learning something about how adults behave. And although many things puzzle her, such as why people fall in love, this endeavour teaches her a lot about life and fuels growth in both her imagination and her capacity to lap up yet more knowledge. She is also something of a mathematical prodigy. (I'm afraid I was none of these things; but then I suspect nor were most kids, whatever they said)

Well, I don't want to give away too much of what happens. Suffice it to say that she forms a bond with her young teacher and rescues her from a terrible and unjust predicament using a cunning plan and special powers that she has developed. The story ends with her parents off the scene and Matilda safely in the protective arms of her teacher. 

It's a story that ends very well - if you're a child! The goodies definitely win out over the baddies. And Matilda herself can continue to develop her intellect with her teacher to fondly look after her, in a proper home, with books galore, and every encouragement.

The adult in me picked holes in that scenario straightaway. Unless the teacher could quickly become her guardian, Matilda's fate was bound to be quite different. Council care, then a foster home, surely. Or if there were any advantage in it, her awful parents would come back for her. Or the teacher would turn into a kind of manager. Or scientists and doctors would descend, and cart Matilda off to some special institution.

Just as well it's only a children's story!

Did the book end well for me? Only if I were able to be a child again, and could react appropriately. And that was beyond me. But was that surprising? Most adults seem to lose the ability to think like a child, and to understand how a child sees things. I was no different. But it's always puzzled me, why adults can't see things as a child sees them. After all, we were all very young once: why does this amnesia happen?  

Perhaps in very old age we do remember, and can enter a child's mind again like we once did as children ourselves. I can believe that grandparents and great-grandparents have this ability when near the end. It must be an extraordinary experience for the wondering child, who realises that they are understood as even their own parents don't understand them. I had no grandparents in my life, and that kind of magic was never mine. I can't help feeling that it was an irreplaceable loss.

I do share one thing with Matilda: a love of reading. Long live books. 

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