JO DAVISON: Pensioners living in the lap of luxury
The father-in-law has just bought himself a laptop. He may as well have got himself a lapdancer, seeing as, having parted with his money, all he can do is look but not touch. Ultra slim with sleek, sensual curves, it looks a picture. And there isn't a trick it can't perform.
Though I doubt that, for the foreseeable future, it will never get anywhere even close to flexing its little internal muscles or using up a fraction of its hard drive.
You couldn't call him one of those silver surfers. Not by a long chalk. I can't imagine the FIL is ever going to be able to do much more than row the internet with a pair of wooden oars and a curse of vexation on his lips.
For quite a while (a week, I think) he didn't even know how to switch it on. I'm sure they told him at John Lewis (where else would a septuagenarian buy a computer?). But he'd forgotten by the time he got it home.
To be fair, though, laptops are about the only devices I can think of where off button is also the on - and it doesn't actually say so.
He rang Bloke, who told him what to do in about 0.74 seconds. Then two days later he rang Bloke again, to say he'd done that, but it had gone off again and what was he supposed to do now. He had the laptop's sleep mode explained to him. I would like to hope it was done gently.
And, when a few more days had passed, FIL plucked up the courage to call again. This time, there was a hint of panic in his dear, sing-song Scottish tone. He seemed convinced that any button he pressed was going to cause spontaneous combustion of machine, man and tidy Aston semi. Bloke decided the only thing for it was to go over one evening and spend as many hours as patience would allow.
To help the situation, his mother, in the way that women do when there's likely to be man stress, had made apple pie. And it did indeed have a soothing effect. Though so arduous was the task of teaching his good old dad how to do something that a seven-year-old can do with one hand tied behind his back and Pepa Pig on continuous loop, he's demanding a home-made trifle next time. Heavy on the sherry.
My cavalryman came home weary from his mission, but with an air approaching smugness, I have to say. See, the tables had finally turned. The capable dad who used to get exasperated when his lad couldn't grasp his maths homework was now the small, puzzled person overawed by the other's wisdom.
FIL has still not been able to send an email solo. Though you can't blame him for being out of his depth. I mean, where exactly are these silver surfers? I know not one, though I do know stacks of grey elderly technophobes.
I once tried to instruct my step-father, computer-illiterate for 15 years, how to put an attachment on his mail. Never again; I'd rather have needles inserted under my fingernails.
Never in their wildest dreams did the older generation imagine they would have to spend their twilight years pressing buttons for instant absolutely everything, and have a Microsoft window onto the world, sitting atop their G-plan coffee tables. They got by perfectly well on the Yellow Pages annual and their Readers' Digest subscriptions. They didn't ask for this.
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Friday 10 February 2012
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