A Little Of Nothing

Category: Technology & The Internet

  • This Post Was Written by AI

    This Post Was Written by AI

    Wait, just wait…

    By “AI” I do, of course, mean an Actual Idiot.

    Namely, myself.

    Obvious clickbait title, eh? Thought that’d catch you!

    Let me elucidate.

    Actually, no. Let me explain.

    Words like elucidate are what got me into this mess in the first place.

    Despite my best intentions, I apparently sound artificial.

    I’m not offended by this. In fact, I’m quite fascinated by it.

    I’d noticed that my writing scored embarrassingly highly on various online “Was this written by AI?” tests. At first I couldn’t understand why.

    Well, that’s not entirely true.

    I had a fair-to-middling idea why.

    It’s my writing style.

    It’s too… measured.

    Too formal.

    Too structured.

    Too fond of words like fair-to-middling.

    I grew up with a fairly severe stammer. (See my previous post about that.)

    As a result, I spoke slowly and used small, simple words. But just because I spoke slowly, chose my words carefully and delivered them in a flat, measured manner didn’t mean I lacked a vocabulary.

    Far from it.

    I was a voracious reader.

    If there was something to read, I read it.

    Books.

    Magazines.

    Newspapers.

    Encyclopedias.

    Dictionaries.

    The backs of cereal boxes.

    If it contained words, it was fair game.

    My nose was almost permanently buried in a book.

    I developed a particular fondness for older literature. Poe, Lovecraft, Shelley, Dumas, Dickens and many others filled my head with strange vocabulary and elaborate sentence structures.

    Reading dictionaries and encyclopedias gave me a phenomenal vocabulary. Positively Brobdingnagian, one might say.

    (I use that word rather a lot. It’s one of my favourites. Perhaps I should stick with “Big” going forward?)

    My irritating near-photographic memory meant I accumulated a vast store of facts and trivia. So much so that my parents’ nickname for me was “The Professor”, because I was always explaining how something worked, who invented it or why some obscure historical event mattered.

    In public, however, I was deeply introverted.

    I embodied the old instruction:

    “Speak when you’re spoken to.”

    And even then, I generally replied with the minimum amount necessary to remain polite.

    I developed an inferiority complex that never entirely left me.

    I’m fifty-six years old.

    I work for a large multinational IT company and support some fairly significant clients.

    Think military.

    Think government.

    Think organisations with enough bureaucracy to make Kafka and Orwell ask everyone to calm down.

    And yet, in my head, I’m still just a code monkey.

    Most people my age have become team leaders, managers, senior managers or directors.

    Not me.

    I never particularly wanted promotion.

    I lack anything resembling a healthy ego.

    I’m just as happy writing a flagship application or major piece of software as I am testing somebody else’s code or filling out administrative paperwork.

    I’ve never been good at putting myself forward.

    I rarely assume excellence.

    I rarely even claim competence.

    Which is ridiculous, of course.

    I know I’m good at what I do.

    I find that difficult to say.

    In fact, if I’m being painfully honest, I’m very good at what I do.

    There. I’ve said it.

    Please don’t make me do it again.

    At university, the expected trajectory was a PhD.

    I dropped out at the end of my BSc during my Master’s.

    Why?

    Because I couldn’t picture myself as a doctor.

    (Albeit a Doctor of Mathematics rather than the Gallifreyan variety.)

    Me?

    A stammering working-class lad from a family of labourers and cooks?

    I knew my place.

    And in my mind, it certainly wasn’t “Doctor”.

    Looking back, that says rather more about me than it does about academia.

    My lack of ambition and reluctance to promote myself influences my writing too.

    I minimise myself.

    I soften statements.

    I hedge.

    I qualify.

    I write passively because active statements feel uncomfortably close to boasting.

    Even writing this article feels slightly unnatural.

    I’ve deliberately filled it with “I am”, “I did” and “I think” statements.

    Normally I’d be restructuring sentences, removing myself from them and quietly disappearing into the background.

    The urge to do so is considerable.

    I’m resisting it for the sake of the experiment.

    So perhaps that’s why AI detectors think I’m an AI.

    Not because I write like a machine.

    But because I write in a style that is structured, measured and oddly formal.

    The irony is that I was probably sounding like this long before anybody took artificial intelligence seriously.

    For the record, I’m not particularly an AI enthusiast.

    My mathematical background means I understand the statistical prediction and pattern-matching taking place beneath the surface.

    My IT background helps me understand the engineering behind it.

    I find the technology fascinating.

    I find many of its applications considerably less so.

    Personally, I wouldn’t trust a large language model to write a postcard, let alone a blog or novel.

    Speaking of novels, I have one.

    Actually, I have ten.

    Although, technically, they’re ten versions of the same novel.

    None of them will ever be published because none of them will ever be finished.

    I keep discovering ways to improve them.

    Or ruin them.

    The distinction becomes increasingly blurry after version seven.

    As for AI-generated writing?

    I find much of it technically impressive but emotionally hollow.

    Competent.

    Coherent.

    Soulless.

    Perhaps that’s why I’m amused when people accuse me of writing like an AI.

    I’ve spent a lifetime trying to figure out how to sound more human.

    It would be deeply ironic if I finally succeeded just as the machines started sounding like me.

    BEEP BOOP.. END OF POST ERROR : REFILL #C0FFEE.

  • Small Talk Is TCP Handshaking for Humans

    Small Talk Is TCP Handshaking for Humans

    I have long suspected that small talk is not really about talking at all. I mean, obviously it’s about talking, but it’s not about imparting information or saying anything of actual interest.

    It is, I think, more accurately described as a kind of human protocol negotiation. A lightweight exchange whose purpose is not to transfer meaningful information, but to confirm that both parties are present, functional, and broadly willing to proceed without causing a scene.

    In computer networking terms, it feels rather a lot like a TCP three-way handshake.

    That may sound like an over-complicated way to describe “Morning” and “Busy day?” but I maintain it is exactly the right amount of over-complication.

    The analogy works on several levels at once.

    TCP handshakeHuman small talk
    SYN“Morning.”
    SYN/ACK“Morning. Busy today?”
    ACK“Yeah, not too bad.”
    Connection establishedActual conversation may now proceed

    The actual content is almost irrelevant.

    The handshake exists to establish availability, willingness, compatibility, safety, and communication parameters. Small talk does much the same thing. It is not there to win prizes for insight. It is there to say, in the safest possible way:

    I see you. You seem non-threatening. We may now continue.

    That is quite a useful invention, really.

    It is also, for some of us, faintly bewildering.

    Because my brain has a tendency to assume conversations should do one of three things:

    1. exchange useful information.
    2. explore an interesting idea.
    3. contain at least one genuinely terrible joke.

    Small talk often does none of these things.

    Which is not to say it is pointless. Far from it. It is just that its point is not always the same as the point my brain is looking for.

    That can make it feel a bit like packet loss.

    Some of the signal gets through. Some of it doesn’t. A few words arrive intact, but the important meaning seems to have been dropped somewhere between the intention and the execution.

    The weather is discussed.

    The weekend is mentioned.

    A vague inquiry is made about one’s wellbeing.

    And yet the actual data being transmitted is something like:

    I am safe. You are safe. We may continue this interaction without immediate risk of social collapse.

    That is a rather elegant system when it works properly.

    It is also a system with some spectacular failure modes.

    Failed Handshake

    Sometimes the handshake fails immediately.

    You offer the smallest possible opening.

    “Morning.”

    And the other person replies:

    “Is it? I mean the way the world’s going it might as well be the end of days. The planet’s going to hell in a hand basket and we’re all doomed.”

    At that point the connection has not merely failed. It has been forcibly terminated, the cable has been unplugged, and the router has probably started smoking.

    Connection reset by peer.

    Timeout

    Then there is the timeout problem.

    Someone asks:

    “How are you?”

    and the answer requires a socially acceptable level of detail, emotional calibration, and acceptable honesty.

    My brain, meanwhile, is attempting to calculate whether “fine” is technically accurate, whether “surviving” sounds too bleak, whether “not bad” is too British to be believable (see below!), and whether any response longer than six words will prompt a follow-up I do not have the energy to sustain.

    By the time I have finished this internal analysis, the moment has passed.

    Connection timed out.

    Packet Flooding

    Some people go in the opposite direction.

    You offer:

    “Morning.”

    And they respond:

    “Morning! Did you see that interesting show on TV last night about medieval bridge taxation? Made me think about my current view on plug in solar panels, my advancing years, my neighbour’s cat, and the collapse of the world’s democratic politics systems..”

    That is not a handshake.

    That is packet flooding.

    ADHD can do this rather beautifully. One tiny conversational spark and suddenly a completely unrelated archive of information is bursting out of the firewall at speed.

    Which, to be fair, can sometimes be entertaining.

    It just isn’t small talk anymore. There’s nothing small about it.

    Encrypted Traffic

    Us British people add another layer of complexity, because many of us speak in what is essentially encrypted traffic.

    “Not bad.”

    Not only is this British understatement at its very best, this can mean:

    • life is actually pretty good actually!
    • life is acceptable.
    • life is mildly annoying and could be better.
    • life is a bit of a struggle but let us not make a fuss.
    • a bottomless abyss has opened beneath me, but the kettle still works, so we are continuing cup in hand and trying our best to avoid the hordes of demons spewing forth from this hellish portal.

    That is an extraordinary amount of information to pack into two words.

    It is also one of the reasons small talk can be so difficult to decode. The literal words are only half the message. Tone, timing, context, and cultural expectation carry the rest.

    The protocol is not just words.

    It is inference, and unfortunately, not something I’m particularly good at.

    UDP People

    Then there are people who skip the handshake entirely.

    They are the conversational equivalent of UDP.

    “HELLO STRANGER HERE IS MY INFODUMP OF TRAUMAS, PROBLEMS AND CONCERNS!!.”

    No connection setup.

    No reliability guarantees.

    No orderly exchange of packets.

    Just pure, immediate data transfer with absolutely no regard for conventional protocol.

    This can be alarming, but occasionally refreshing.

    Stateful Firewall

    Autistic masking probably deserves its own category here.

    It can feel a bit like trying to pass through a stateful firewall while manually monitoring every tiny aspect of your own behaviour.

    Eye contact? Adjusted.

    Tone? Checked.

    Facial expression? Calibrated.

    Volume? Sensible.

    Response time? Natural enough to avoid suspicion.

    Internal panic? Well hidden, hopefully.

    The result is not always elegant, but it is functional.. barely.

    NAT Traversal

    Trying to socialise at parties is also very much like NAT traversal.

    You know there is a connection somewhere in there.

    You know the other person is a perfectly ordinary human being.

    You know you are supposed to be able to reach them.

    And yet the routing is somehow wrong, the ports are blocked, and everyone is standing in awkward little clusters pretending not to notice that all communication has become mysteriously more difficult than it should be.

    And when you do get into a cluster, the least said about the actual handshaking the better. (Especially Dave with the sweaty palms!)

    So Why Does Small Talk Exist At All?

    Because it is doing a job.

    A very human job.

    Small talk reduces uncertainty.

    It establishes connection.

    It signals intent.

    It gives both parties a safe place to stand before deciding whether to move into more meaningful territory.

    It is a social compatibility check.

    A “yes, we can talk” exchange.

    A way of saying:

    I am friendly.

    You are safe.

    We may proceed.

    That is actually rather beautiful, when you think about it.

    Even if the words themselves are often about absolutely nothing of consequence.

    Why It Feels So Hard

    For many neurodivergent people, the difficulty is not that small talk is meaningless.

    The difficulty is that its meaning is often indirect.

    It is a social ritual disguised as conversation.

    A lot of the work is happening in the subtext.

    And subtext is a slippery little creature.

    If your brain prefers clarity, precision, and explicit information, small talk can feel like being asked to decode a message written in invisible ink.

    Which, admittedly, is not very helpful.

    The Human Side of the Protocol

    And yet…

    And yet, for all my cantankerous grumbling, I do think there is something lovely about it.

    We are, after all, social animals operating a remarkably fragile but surprisingly effective communication system. Small talk is one of the tiny pieces of software that keeps the whole thing from crashing immediately.

    It is how we ease into each other’s company.

    It is how we test for warmth.

    It is how we say, with minimal risk and maximum politeness, that we are willing to share a moment. You’re lowering your shields and allowing the Klingons to beam aboard.

    That is not nothing.

    In Closing

    So yes, perhaps small talk is the human equivalent of a TCP handshake.

    A few neat little exchanges whose real purpose is not the content, but the connection.

    Sometimes it works perfectly.

    Sometimes it fails immediately.

    Sometimes the packets arrive out of order.

    Sometimes somebody starts talking about medieval bridge taxation or python programming before the connection is even established.

    But when it does work, it lets two strangers become, very briefly, not strangers at all.

    And really, that is quite a clever trick for a few essentially meaningless words and a friendly look over a cup of coffee.