4 June 2015
Droning on
by Chin Chin
Perhaps you offended them. Maybe they felt unwelcome when they came round to dinner, or they heard that joke you made about them through your mutual “friends”. There has to be some explanation for the gift. No one could give one of those things to an eight-year-old boy unless they had a score to settle with his parents. No, it’s not a drum set but something rather worse than that – one of those radio controlled helicopters you can use inside the house.
When the package was opened everyone greeted it with enthusiasm. The little helicopter was put on the table and rose a couple of feet before landing, admittedly a little lopsidedly. Actually, it seemed quite an educational toy and you took a few minutes to explain about rotors and up-thrust and Bernoulli’s effect. No, of course that wasn’t showing off: it was parental encouragement. If the lad has the potential to be an engineer he had better start now. That’s when it all went wrong. All puffed up because for once the little blighter seemed to be listening, you fell into the trap and came out with the fatal words “if you practice hard you will soon learn how to operate it”.
I suppose people have said things that were even more disastrous. After all, the order which started the charge of the Light Brigade wasn’t a roaring success and whoever it was who suggested pulling the wooden horse into Troy didn’t do too well either. Still, on a domestic level, telling a young boy to practice indoors with his helicopter ranks quite high. The result was immediate. There were screams from his little sister as the helicopter chased her around the house; there were howls from the dog as the rotor blade clipped its ear; there were shouts of outrage as the vase containing grandmother’s ashes was knocked off the shelf and shattered in the coal bucket; and for you, the author of all this chaos, there was the task of replying to an excited questioner; “do you think I’m better at it now?”
Now, no one wants to discourage the young from practising anything, so it wouldn’t do at all to countermand the previous advice. Something more subtle is called for, some sort of accident which wipes out the helicopter without doing psychological damage to the child. Ah, yes, just the thing, there is a large wasp in the kitchen. The accomplished athlete can account for it with a single swing of the tennis racket. Oops! You got the helicopter. Perhaps it would have been better if its rotor had stopped spinning before it fell into the bowl of flour sitting on the draining board, but then those Christmas scenes of snow falling around the Holy Family have always been very popular. Anyway, the helicopter seems to be dead and the words addressed to the sobbing child are designed both to praise and to bury it.
None of this matters very much of itself. Households have always had their share of disasters (“no, David, I know you are good with the sling but stop practising in the kitchen”) and those wrought by plastic helicopters are merely the latest version. The trouble is that it’s going to get a lot worse and the reason for that is drones. Drones have had a good press generally and certainly they promise to become very useful. By flying above the traffic they will be able to deliver things safely and easily. Need some more olive oil? The Waitrose drone will be with you in minutes. Slip over in the street? A drone with sticking plaster and disinfectant will soon be at your side. Does the essay have to be in tonight? A delivery drone will pick it up from the door and take it to your tutor. What’s not to like about drones, unless, of course, you happen to be an enemy of the West?
The answer to this can be found in an article published last week. It suggests that those addicted to the selfie will want to be followed around by camera-carrying drones so that their every act is recorded on film for posterity. Now that sort of thing has long been usual in the bedroom where perverts, blackmailers and secret agents are all expert in the technology of one-way mirrors and hidden lenses; but everywhere and openly? Imagine junior football matches with little Johnny being followed up and down the field by the parental drone, its camera following his every movement. With two full teams there could be twenty-two drones in attendance. Suppose it is rugby and there is a scrum. Will the drones hover above it, blocking out the sky with their wings, until they crash into each other and fall on the players? So much for a relaxed game.
But it won’t be just be sport that is ruined. Drones will replace the parapazzi, flying low over the south of France looking for movie stars sunbathing topless. Worse still, they may learn to communicate with each other like game wardens on safari, so that the call will go out in dronespeak; “Miss Lovely lying next to someone who is not her husband”, at which the air will darken with the beating of wings.
Obviously such intrusions on privacy will bring about a reaction and people will buy jammer devices to interfere with the control mechanism of the drones so that you can press a button from your sun lounger and watch them crash and burn like space invaders. It would be entertaining, of course, but quite difficult to do successfully unless you can distinguish a good drone from a bad. “Where’s my new dress?” the lady of the house might ask. “I asked the couturier to deliver it by drone.” Her husband goes a little red and, as he comments indignantly on the inefficiency of modern business, deftly pushing his new drone blaster under the sofa with his foot.
Sadly, it’ll probably never get that far. Some sort of drone licensing scheme will have to be introduced so that only good people – like supermarkets, the military and bishops of the Established Church – will be allowed to operate drones. The rest of us will either be left droneless or will have to mount pirate operations. Actually, the latter could be quite fun – particularly if you happen to be an eight-year-old boy.
