An Altercation with Auto-Correct

 

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When I started out on my post on Pachelbel he was, in spite of being dead a few hundred years, in pretty good nick. Now it has come to my attention that he is not well. Worse, he has undergone a frightful transformation. ‘Transmogrified’ is the word.

Literal minded, know nothing, bossy auto-correct is the villain.

Whenever I wrote ‘Pachelbel, auto-correct fiercely underlined it with red, saying, No, No, that is not a word.[it is doing it now]. Then what word am I after? I asked. The word you are after it asserted was — wait for it! — ‘Bellyache’. What? Are you mad? I said. How do you get ‘Bellyache’ out of ‘Pachelbel’? Auto-correct became belligerent and I’m sad to report we came to fisticuffs. Finally bruised and black-eyed I over-rode auto-correct. There was no way soothing Pachelbel would become painful Bellyache! Afterwards though I did have a good belly-laugh over it.

Auto-correct is no longer speaking to me.

 

Have you had similar problems with auto-correct?

Dark Spots

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There’s an ad on some Word Press posts saying,

‘Don’t Cover Up Your Dark Spots’ and I thought,

Whoa, isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?

Keep our sins and prejudices in the attic,

not flaunt them, like dirty washing ; to hide

our inner trolls. I know what the ad means. I’m not stupid.

I just got carried away by the metaphor, that’s all.

And anyway I almost put up a post yesterday

Revealing a darker, nasty side of me but my therapist

Urged me not to put it up, that there are dark spots,

She said, that are best concealed.

 

Rain

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For nights and nights and nights I lay on my pillow, worrying, listening to the rain, even though the skies were clear and starlit and the moon shone through my window like a lantern and I wondered what else I was hearing that wasn’t there or not hearing that was until one day I had my ears syringed with warm water and the wax flowed out in little honey-coloured clumps into a dish the nurse held for me and I no longer heard it rain except when it did.

Barking Mad

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There’s a wine called ‘Barking Mad’.

I liked it so much I bought six bottles and drank them all.

Not in one night, of course.

There have been times when I have been barking mad:

Over the insurance company’s delay in fixing my storm-damaged gate because ‘it is just a gate’,

Over next door’s yippee yappy dog who goes off when I piss under the lemon tree at night alarming the neighbours and the back lights go on to see what’s up [ Can’t a man piss in peace? ]

But mostly it’s the scammer with the heavy Slav accent who phones every few days to tell me my internet has been infected and will be turned off unless I phone a certain number.

It hasn’t been turned off yet and I haven’t phoned.

Over petrol prices that go up and down like a wild week at the Dow Jones.

I could go on but you get the idea.

Everyone is a Howard Beale barking mad at something.

Not a Black Cat

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It was not a black cat

But a red rooster

That crossed my path this morning

On my way to gym.

I waited

As it waddled past the car

Oblivious to the honour

I had accorded it.

 

Why the rooster crossed the road

I do not know

Though it waddled

With intent.

It had the whole day

In front of it

Provided it did not cross

Too many roads.

Greater Expectations

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Someone once said to me, Expect the Unexpected.

It seemed daring at the time so I took it on board.

The only problem was because I expected the Unexpected all the time I wasn’t really surprised when it happened.

It was expected, right?

Life was losing its surprise factor.

I felt heavy as a watermelon.

My counsellor suggested — wait for it — Expect only the Expected.

So I do,

When the Unexpected happens I light up like a lantern

twinkle like a star.

It wasn’t expected, right?