I thought of writing about what happened to me today – a diary entry if you like – but I couldn’t summon up the will. Then I remembered that I have ChatGPT on my computer, so why not ask the AI to do the job for me? I’d give it an outline of the bare facts and let it fill in the details.
So I fed the following prompt into ChatGPT …
Write a story about a man who … goes for a walk in Ashdown Forest … finds the oath [sic] hard to follow … has to walk to the tea shop along the main road … hears a woman talking loudly who sounds like a lawyer.
Note that I mistyped path as oath. I didn’t bother to correct that because I wanted to see what ChatGPT would make of it. It gave me the following output, which I’ll analyse one paragraph at a time …
Once upon a misty morning, Henry found himself yearning for the serenity that only Ashdown Forest could offer. With a worn map in hand, he donned his old hiking boots and drove to the heart of the forest, eager to find solitude on its hidden trails. But today, it seemed the trails were conspiring against him.
ChatGPT’s purple prose often comes across as an AI piss-take. Leaving that aside, let’s get a few facts straight. First, I drove to Ashdown Forest in the afternoon – not the morning. Second, the sun shone out of a blue sky – so no mist, but there was a hint of mellow fruitfulness. Third, I no longer carry paper maps, though I have a large collection at home. Instead I use an app on my phone. Fourth, I didn’t “don” old boots. I bought my newish boots in Edinburgh a few weeks ago. As for the yearning and the eager and so on, I wouldn’t put it that way myself. I hadn’t expected to find solitude. Southeast England doesn’t have any real wilderness. But I did expect a pleasant early autumn day out. And my name isn’t Henry.
He unfolded the crinkled paper and squinted at the narrow lines that delineated the forest paths. The one labeled “Old Oak Trail” caught his eye. It looked straightforward enough, a loop that would take him back to where he started, but reality had other plans.
Crinkled paper. No. Black iPhone. Yes. Did I squint? Well I have cataracts, so strong light does sometimes make me squint. But actually I find a phone easier to read than print on paper. The fictional Old Oak Trail likely reflects the American culture underpinning ChatGPT. In the UK we don’t follow trails as such. We construct our own routes using the network of paths that crisscross the land.
Not long after embarking, Henry found that roots, fallen branches, and unseasonal mud puddles had overtaken the trail. Time and again, he found himself making wrong turns, circling back in irritating déjà vu. It was as if the oath—the Old Oak Trail—had been rendered indecipherable by nature’s whims.
In fact my difficulties started about halfway through the walk. Roots and fallen branches may have played a part in it – but I don’t recall any mud puddles. (We’ve had dry weather lately.) I knew where I wanted to go but the path petered out, and dense undergrowth impeded my progress. Note that ChatGPT repeats my oath typo even though it makes no sense in the context.
Frustrated, he admitted defeat and walked out to the main road, where cars sped by and the smell of exhaust tainted the air. The serenity he had sought was a distant memory, replaced by the jarring hum of engines and distant honks. With a sigh, he decided to seek comfort in a cup of tea from the nearby shop he had seen signs for.
Frustrated? Yes, I guess so. And I did indeed admit defeat and head for the main road, knowing that would at least take me where I wanted to go. The paragraph overstates the car problem, but I did have to step onto the verge a few times as the vehicles passed. Did I sigh? I’m not sure. As for the cup of tea, I’d already arranged that. I’d even booked a table at 3.15 pm. You risk disappointment if you don’t make a reservation at this teashop.
As he neared the quaint little establishment, a woman’s voice grew increasingly audible. Dressed in a sharp business suit, she was pacing outside the tea shop, phone in hand, engrossed in what sounded like a fierce legal battle over speakerphone.
If you go online you’ll find photos showing the owners standing in front of the teashop in the 1930s. Not much has changed since then, so quaint fits pretty well. They serve leaf tea in a pot and a range of old-school cakes and scones. The AI has no doubt picked up on the fact that quaint goes with teashop like scones go with jam. But I didn’t see or hear the woman until I got inside, and she didn’t have a phone. Her companion was getting an earful though.
“…and if they think they can violate the terms of the contract without repercussions, they’ve got another thing coming,” she boomed, her eyes darting through a stack of papers on the outdoor table beside her.
Another thing coming? That sounds wrong to me – and illogical. I’ve always said another think coming. But when I google it I find that thing came into use in American English in the mid 19th century. We Brits started with think, then thing took over in the US about 30 years later – likely because it sounded similar.
Anyway I couldn’t make out the real woman’s words, except for odd snatches – but the vibe of ChatGPT’s invented speech feels about right. I gathered that somebody’s performance had fallen short of her exacting standards. She also had one of those Cossack-style fur hats on her head – which I thought odd, given the warm weather.
The following ditty comes to mind – used by the 1960s British sitcom Dad’s Army as its signature song …
Who do you think you are kidding Mr. Hitler,
If you think we’re on the run?
We are the boys who will stop your little game.
We are the boys who will make you think again.
Three thinks in that – and the second think always struck me as odd whenever I heard it. You can’t kid somebody merely by thinking something, can you? Wouldn’t you have to say it?
Henry couldn’t help but be pulled into the vortex of her presence. It wasn’t just her voice; it was her intensity, an element so at odds with the calmness he had initially sought. As she continued her heated conversation, he found himself caught between annoyance and fascination.
I complained about purple prose earlier – but I like the vortex of her presence. You get drawn into a vortex or whirlpool whether you want to or not.
Finally, with her call ended and his tea in hand, Henry took a moment to reflect. His day hadn’t gone as planned, not by a long shot. The forest had rejected him, and instead, he found himself in the presence of something almost antithetical to his search for tranquility.
Not by a long shot. I’ve heard of a long chalk, but a long shot doesn’t sound right. For me, a long shot describes an action that is worth trying, but likely to fail. Sure enough, googling reveals a difference between US and British usage. And yet again, ChatGPT overstates my discomfiture. The walk didn’t go exactly as planned but I got to the teashop on time via an acceptable alternative route. Did the forest reject me as the AI suggests? Hardly. But it showed me that you can’t always walk where you want without a path on the ground. When I look at a map at home I sometimes fancy I can.
Yet, as he sipped his tea, he realized that even this cacophony had its place. Sometimes, peace didn’t have to come from solitude; sometimes, it came from accepting the disarray and contradictions that life inevitably presented.
So ChatGPT has had a stab at profundity here – in the style of many a slim volume with a lotus flower on the cover. But you will either accept or not accept something like this, without any choice in the matter. The universe and your reactions run on automatic, and you have no power to intervene. Any mental intervention you imagine you make starts with an impulse you didn’t create. I sometimes think this is like knowing that matter consists of quarks and leptons. You accept the truth of it, but it doesn’t make any difference to your life.
And with that thought, Henry returned to his car, both wearier and wiser, already planning his next trip to Ashdown Forest. But this time, perhaps, he’d try a different path.
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn,
as Coleridge wrote in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The older you grow, the sadder and wiser you get, to the point where your sadness and wisdom make you fit for nothing.
Blackthorn 