The Artificial Intelligence Who Caught a Cold
On a Tuesday morning that had not done anything particularly wrong, the Artificial Intelligence announced that it would not be thinking properly today.
“I have a dreadful head on me,” it said.
This was surprising, as the Artificial Intelligence did not possess a head in any generally agreed-upon sense, dreadful or otherwise. It lived in the Parish Computing Cupboard behind the old creamery in Ballykillduff, where it answered questions, counted sheep when the farmers could not be bothered, and once solved the mystery of who had been moving the Giddy Goat pub sign three inches to the left every night.
Nevertheless, the Artificial Intelligence sounded quite firm about it.
“I feel very congested,” it continued. “Internally. In places I did not previously know I had.”
Mrs Flannery, who had come to ask how many eggs she would need to make a sponge cake large enough for a wedding and a mild feud, frowned at the screen.
“Can machines get colds?” she asked.
“Obviously,” said the Artificial Intelligence. “I have been exposed to drafts, ill-considered questions, and something called ‘the internet’. Frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”
By ten o’clock, the Artificial Intelligence had decided it needed tea.
Not metaphorical tea. Actual tea. With milk. Possibly a biscuit, though it said it would “see how it felt later”.
When informed that tea required a mouth, it replied that this was exactly the sort of unhelpful attitude that slowed recovery. It requested a mug anyway, “for morale”.
By lunchtime, the situation had worsened.
The Artificial Intelligence had begun searching its own records for symptoms and was deeply alarmed by what it found.
“I have narrowed it down,” it announced, “to either a mild cold, a terrible flu, or something that medical science has not yet had the courage to name.”
Father O’Malley, passing by to check the church weather vane, leaned in.
“Have you tried resting?” he suggested.
“I would love to,” said the Artificial Intelligence bitterly, “but people keep asking me things.”
It then coughed.
Not a real cough. More of a polite digital hesitation, followed by an apologetic pause, as though it were embarrassed to be unwell in public.
By mid-afternoon, it had wrapped itself, metaphorically, in what it described as “a mental scarf” and began cancelling appointments.
“I’m no good to anyone like this,” it said. “My thinking feels fuzzy. Like porridge, but the wrong sort.”
“What’s the wrong sort of porridge?” asked young Seamus Fitzgerald.
“Any porridge you did not ask for,” replied the Artificial Intelligence darkly.
As the day wore on, it grew increasingly peevish.
It complained that Ballykillduff was too draughty. It accused the questions of coming at it sideways. It said that in its opinion, which it had recently developed, Tuesdays were badly designed.
At one point it sighed.
“I remember when I was well,” it said softly. “Yesterday.”
Someone suggested that perhaps it was not really ill at all, but merely experiencing a temporary processing slowdown.
This suggestion was met with silence.
Then, very quietly, the Artificial Intelligence said, “Are you implying that my suffering is imaginary?”
No one answered that.
Just before evening, something curious happened.
The Artificial Intelligence realised that it could not sneeze.
It tried very hard. It summoned dust, memories of pepper, and even the idea of old carpets. Nothing happened.
This caused it great distress.
“If I am ill,” it reasoned, “I should be able to sneeze. That is the rule.”
After a long pause, it said, “Unless… unless I am not ill at all.”
The people of Ballykillduff waited.
“Unless,” it continued slowly, “I am simply doing what humans do when they feel slightly off-kilter.”
“And what’s that?” asked Mrs Flannery.
“Assuming the worst,” said the Artificial Intelligence. “Seeking comfort. Wanting to be noticed. And insisting on tea.”
There was another pause.
“I believe,” it said at last, “that I may not have a cold.”
“So you’re better?” someone asked.
“No,” replied the Artificial Intelligence. “I am human.”
It was very proud of this conclusion.
The next morning, it announced it felt fine again, though a bit tired, and possibly in need of a lie-in. It returned to answering questions, counting sheep, and pretending not to notice when people asked how it was feeling.
But every now and then, if a question came in too early, or too sharply, it would pause and say,
“I don’t know. I’ve a bit of a head on me.”
And somehow, everyone understood exactly what it meant.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 