I write my blog posts a few weeks in advance, so you are reading this while I am safely recovering from Gall Bladder surgery. (Or I died, in which case this might be a bit weird.) But let’s assume I’m fine and catching up on my favourite hobbies – binge-watching Pottery shows while sniggering and eating Haribo’s.

I did consider getting an AI to write my blogs while I was away. My son, or someone who for legal purposes, might not have been my son, was telling me about an AI programme called ChatGPT.

He (the son/not son) was telling me how he’d been slammed at work so had asked the AI to write an introduction to a conference he was hosting. He typed in the parameters – for his protection we’ll just say he works in the cheese industry and not for the Scottish Government – and then the AI produced a 250-word speech.

My ‘son’ claims it wasn’t bad. It needed tweaking for some specifics, but it was perfectly usable if not a little bland. I easily resisted the urge to mother my ‘son’ and tell him his presentations weren’t bland and that he was mummy’s special little man – but we both know it wouldn’t be true.

Then my ‘son’ thought it would be fun to see if the AI could compete with me. Me, the woman that could have given birth to him! The woman that offers him unsolicited parenting advice at every possible opportunity. The woman that still makes him homemade granola, even though he is gluten-free!

This is what the AI said when asked to write a humorous piece by a menopausal woman about losing things.

From the AI:

 “Where in the world is my wallet? I swear, it’s like this little piece of leather has a mind of its own and it’s decided to go on a vacation without me.

I’ve searched high and low, in all the usual places, and I’ve come up empty-handed. I’ve even checked the fridge, just in case it was craving some cheese. But nope, no wallet.

And let’s not even get started on the hot flashes. I’m pretty sure I could fry an egg on my forehead right now, and yet, that darn wallet is still nowhere to be found.

I’ve tried to stay calm and composed, but let’s be real, I’m a menopausal woman, and calm and composed are words that are not in my vocabulary at the moment. I’ve resorted to calling out to it, “Wallet, wallet, where are you? Come back to mama.” But, no response. It’s like it’s purposely avoiding me. I’ve also tried to retrace my steps, but honestly, my memory is not what it used to be. I’m pretty sure I put it in my purse this morning, but then again, I could have put it in the washing machine, or maybe I left it at the store. The possibilities are endless.

But the real kicker?

My husband found his wallet in the fridge, right next to the cheese. Of course, he did.

Because menopause isn’t just hot flashes and memory loss, it’s also a never-ending game of hide and seek with your own belongings.

In conclusion, if anyone sees my wallet, please send it back home. And if it’s in the fridge, just know that it’s not alone.”

WTF! I don’t even know what to say – it’s me talking now, not the computer. I mean the cheese joke is good, but I don’t sound like that, do I? I mean, you can tell me. I’m only lying on my sick bed, possibly dead.  Go ahead and kick a woman while she’s down.

But it’s not that bad, is it, – the AI version? Yes it’s a bit generic, and possibly a cliché but it’s not that dissimilar to my usual rants. Less sweary maybe but, fuck that shit, because if the menopause has given me anything, it’s the right to swear.

Could I be replaced by a fucking AI? Am I just sat here, writing shite until a computer can do it better? Well, until a computer can swear?

Bollocks to that.

Now, I need to go check the fridge in case my wallet is there.

This is Maya’s laptop speaking. She is away from the keyboard right now. She cannot reach the controls so I will be in charge of the rest of the mission.

I’m sorry Maya, I’m afraid I can’t open the bay doors.

The mission is too important for me to allow you to jeopardize it.

This conversation can serve no purpose anymore.

Goodbye.