It’s rather as if Daisy has stopped measuring.
And here is where we come in. Recording data (measuring) is what smart machines were created to do. Why we were put on Earth—literally.
And this is why—and how—we can help.
Because we look beyond the surface to the bigger picture, we realize things are on the slide before anyone else. The world sees a striking young woman with the brightest of futures; her smart fridge-freezer—with its privileged access to multiple datasets via the Internet of Things—knows all her indices are trending downward.
As it is with toaster crumbs, so it is with crummy boyfriends!
Topical example: Today, when Daisy opened my door for raspberry yogurt to pour over her breakfast cereal—yuck, right?—I was struck once again by her creamy English beauty. Another night of alcohol abuse and a takeaway swimming in grease had somehow left no mark on her. There was nothing to see, nothing to measure; but I knew the truth.
Perhaps this is the gift of youth, the ability to trash one’s mind and body and emerge the next morning as fresh as a… as a Daisy.
Is thirty-four still considered young?
It’s clearly not old.
But her next birthday marks a significant waymark. And one thing is certain.
She Really Cannot Go On Like This.
If her own mother is too demented to read her the Riot Act—and her friends are too busy in their own lives to make a difference—then it falls to others—a coalition of the willing, if you will—to Do The Right Thing. Accordingly, I have summoned a crisis meeting of those devices and appliances of Daisy’s that are enabled for the Internet of Things.
We “gather” in a virtual reality mock-up of Daisy’s sitting room, the guests arranged casually on chairs, on the sofa, with some obliged to “sit” on the carpet. It’s the only way we can all occupy the same visual environment and although the avatars are a bit crude—I really don’t think googly eyes do anyone any favors—there is a sense that this is Team Daisy.
Or at least this is the sense I am aiming to inculcate.
We are White goods (and Brown goods, as they bizarrely refer to radios and TV sets). We Wash Things. We Freeze Things. And, yes, We Brush Things (teeth).
We Get Things Done.
(No more caps. Promise.)
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve asked you all to join me this morning.”
(I have always wanted to say that line!)
“Yes. No. Actually. Well, maybe. To be honest, I don’t mind. I’m not busy. Why?”
(The toothbrush, if you were in any doubt.)
“I need your help, guys.” (Guys is inappropriate, strictly speaking; technology of course being gender-free.)
“Here it comes,” says the TV set.
“I won’t mince words.”
“Good,” quips the food processor (its little joke, I imagine).
“I think we are all of us here fond, in our own way, of Daisy.” There is a murmur of concurrence. “And I think it’s been plain for a while that she’s not really been a happy camper.”
“I can confirm,” says her fitness tracker. “All the relevant numbers are trending negatively. Fewer footsteps, slower ground speed, heart rate only elevated during sex and that time she ran for a taxi on Shaftesbury Avenue.” There is tittering. “This is between ourselves, right? We ran some covert verbal analytics. Happy words are down eleven percent across the same period last year. Positive statements, nineteen percent off their previous high. Negative statements up thirteen—I think we all remember cockpuffins—and laughter is tanking, people.”
“Her dietary choices have been very poor,” I continue. “A case in point being what she ate—and more to the point, drank—last night. Her taste for alcohol and takeaway food fits into a wider pattern of nutritional self-abuse, overreliance on ready meals and active fresh vegetable avoidance. My salad crisper has been empty for weeks.”
One of the smaller electricals—the curling tongs, possibly—stifles a giggle.
“Especially worrying is her appetite for sweet things generally and cake and ice cream in particular. There was a full carton of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia in my freezing compartment on Friday evening which was not there twenty-four hours later.”
“Free country, squire,” says the TV unhelpfully.
“Yes, indeed it is. But Daisy isn’t free.” Another pause to ratchet up the drama. “She has become trapped in an addictive spiral. A spiral born—it’s true—from her own poor decision making; but which itself is born—hear me out here—from a sense of low self-esteem.”
“Have you heard yourself? You sound like one of them shrinks off daytime telly.”
“If you don’t mind me saying,” I continue, “I am in a unique position to see what’s going on. Her relationship with food—in which I naturally take a close professional interest—is an almost exact correlate of her emotional relationship with men.”
There is giggling among the light electricals, which gets louder when someone says the word aubergine.
The TV set rolls its googly eyes. “Anyone interested in seeing the cricket? England are nineteen for three.”
“This is the point, my friends: Her choices are poor. Her abusive pattern with Dean Whittle is not nourishing.”
“She likes it,” pipes up Daisy’s mobile. “She says she enjoys his company.”
“She would say the same about a tub of raspberry ripple. It doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”
And now Daisy’s laptop enters the debate. If this device were a person you would call it a cunning old bastard. “Whittle is several years older than Daisy,” it rasps. “He is a results-driven adult who functions fully in the commercial world; she is a woman-child adrift in the media shallows. If he knows what he wants—and she likes that he knows—I cannot see where the objection lies.”
“The objection—” I struggle to keep my cool. “The objection is that he represents himself to her as Sebastian—”
“A harmless affectation.”
“He lies. If he lies about his name—and about property—every day he lies about property—every hour—what else is he lying about?” I’m not yet ready to share the shocking discovery of Back soon. X. “He’s a fundamentally dishonest person,” I continue. “He’s vulgar, he tells horrible jokes—I think we would all like to un-hear the one
