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| Philip Seymour Hoffman |
There is a theory that argues if you put one hundred monkeys in front of one hundred typewriters for one hundred years they would eventually write a Shakespearean sonnet.
Perhaps that theory needs to be revised...
I leaned over and watched it for a while.
“I think the plant is trying to communicate with us Scotto!” I squealed. “What’s it saying?”
We scanned the text message.
'An NBC CNN NBC check lol KiiiiiiL'
“Shite!” I gasped. "It’s telling us to watch the news! It just typed KILL!"
The plant kept merrily typing. It was mainly jibberish but every few lines there’d be a couple of distinct words.
“Ask Phil?” I shrieked, attracting attention from the other diners. “Who the fudge is Phil? Maybe the plant is channelling the spirit of Prince Phillip… no he’s still alive.” I scanned my brain for dead Philips. “Philip Seymour Hoffman! That’s who it probably is!”
“My God, it just typed ‘bubby’! That’s my nickname for you, Pinky!” exclaimed Scotto.
“What are you trying to tell us little plant?” I coaxed, timidly stroking one of its leaves.
'Listening' the plant replied.
“Oh crap! It’s listening!” stammered Scotto.
We watched it deliberately trailing its frond over the touch screen… ‘Hugo… hi…pink’.
“It said PINK!” I almost fell off the chair in shock. “It typed ‘Pink’! This isn’t funny Scotto!”
“Is it about my blog?” I urged the plant. “Do you have an important message about my blog?”
'Lol' the plant replied.
The waiter came over to check on us. “Look,” Scotto pointed to the phone. “The plant’s talking to us!”
“It typed out KILL!” I added theatrically.
This happened to Scotto and I yesterday and is an entirely factual story I promise.
Yesterday began innocently enough when Scotto mentioned he’d like to do some sunset photography for his blog. I suggested we go down to the beach and have a Sunday drink at one of the restaurant/bars on the Strand where the sunset might be spectacular.
It’s not that I’m incapable of doing anything which doesn’t involve alcohol but more that it seemed like a nice idea... and I’m on school holidays after all.
A Sunday drive to the beach was immediately instigated; we found a rock star parking spot and decided to call in to the C Bar which has romantic history for us as that’s where we had our first dinner out together.
Scotto lugged his camera over his shoulder Paparazzi style and we found a table facing West so he could set up his equipment.
“We charge extra for photos!” quipped the jolly, little waiter when he saw the monstrous tripod and lens.
We ordered our drinks and sat waiting for the solar system to do its thing.
“That’s weird,” frowned Scotto, picking up his phone and squinting at it. “My phone has just typed out a message by itself!”
He reset it and placed it back on the table.
“It happened again!” he said a few seconds later. “Look! It’s the frond from the plant moving around my touch screen.”
It’s not that I’m incapable of doing anything which doesn’t involve alcohol but more that it seemed like a nice idea... and I’m on school holidays after all.
A Sunday drive to the beach was immediately instigated; we found a rock star parking spot and decided to call in to the C Bar which has romantic history for us as that’s where we had our first dinner out together.
Scotto lugged his camera over his shoulder Paparazzi style and we found a table facing West so he could set up his equipment.
“We charge extra for photos!” quipped the jolly, little waiter when he saw the monstrous tripod and lens.
We ordered our drinks and sat waiting for the solar system to do its thing.
“That’s weird,” frowned Scotto, picking up his phone and squinting at it. “My phone has just typed out a message by itself!”
He reset it and placed it back on the table.
“It happened again!” he said a few seconds later. “Look! It’s the frond from the plant moving around my touch screen.”
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| Plant typing a text message! |
I leaned over and watched it for a while.
“I think the plant is trying to communicate with us Scotto!” I squealed. “What’s it saying?”
We scanned the text message.
'An NBC CNN NBC check lol KiiiiiiL'
“Shite!” I gasped. "It’s telling us to watch the news! It just typed KILL!"
The plant kept merrily typing. It was mainly jibberish but every few lines there’d be a couple of distinct words.
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| Scotto texted me what the plant wrote so I could document it! |
“Ask Phil?” I shrieked, attracting attention from the other diners. “Who the fudge is Phil? Maybe the plant is channelling the spirit of Prince Phillip… no he’s still alive.” I scanned my brain for dead Philips. “Philip Seymour Hoffman! That’s who it probably is!”
“My God, it just typed ‘bubby’! That’s my nickname for you, Pinky!” exclaimed Scotto.
“What are you trying to tell us little plant?” I coaxed, timidly stroking one of its leaves.
'Listening' the plant replied.
“Oh crap! It’s listening!” stammered Scotto.
We watched it deliberately trailing its frond over the touch screen… ‘Hugo… hi…pink’.
“It said PINK!” I almost fell off the chair in shock. “It typed ‘Pink’! This isn’t funny Scotto!”
“Is it about my blog?” I urged the plant. “Do you have an important message about my blog?”
'Lol' the plant replied.
The waiter came over to check on us. “Look,” Scotto pointed to the phone. “The plant’s talking to us!”
“It typed out KILL!” I added theatrically.
He looked nervously at us and took our drink orders.
We must have frightened him because a different waiter brought the drinks back and this one wasn’t smiling at all.
We watched the plant communicating with us for ages until we realised the sunset was a fizzer and decided to go home.
“I really want to take you home little plant,” said Scotto gently.
“Maybe we can buy it from the restaurant?” I suggested hopefully.
We both agreed that would be cruel because every pot plant we’ve ever owned has perished.
'Think fuk sad' the plant typed.
We left reluctantly (under the close inspection of the waiters and customers at the neighbouring table), promising the plant we’d be back to visit it soon.
That’s if the waiters don’t burn it alive before we get back.
This is some of the text I retrieved from Scotto's phone...
We must have frightened him because a different waiter brought the drinks back and this one wasn’t smiling at all.
We watched the plant communicating with us for ages until we realised the sunset was a fizzer and decided to go home.
“I really want to take you home little plant,” said Scotto gently.
“Maybe we can buy it from the restaurant?” I suggested hopefully.
We both agreed that would be cruel because every pot plant we’ve ever owned has perished.
'Think fuk sad' the plant typed.
We left reluctantly (under the close inspection of the waiters and customers at the neighbouring table), promising the plant we’d be back to visit it soon.
That’s if the waiters don’t burn it alive before we get back.
This is some of the text I retrieved from Scotto's phone...
HDTV add Zach CATCH CAN CAN add oh CHUBB chunk chef an bubby hun chin sad guy thx Sag cash Fax AH I’LL ask Phil Ask lj ask ok Go thkx ah xx listening Hugo hi pink GC chunk loo ok go look pull school has go off & add had get added ages ask kolksda go load him If Jo Hugo lol jump go of think do go Ki’ll ask hook hi gets the add Jo d you look feel safe oh go ppppllll such couch ask I socks chunk ask DJ oh ga DJs da ass think fuk sad him the da ask I’d ago is dad you as to do
What do you think it was trying to tell us?
