Carol’s Column

Bring on the sleep machine!

It was with great interest that I read of the latest invention of Russian scientist Andrei Porchov, who hails from the city of Yakutsk.

The report in the Vostocno Sibiskoje Scientist told of an extraordinary machine invented by the brilliant and unorthodox scientist. Called a Porchov Spermoginiser (a rough literal translation from the Russian), by some chemical process it is apparently able to manufacture sperm.

Although the manufactured sperm is of the Siberian Steppes goat, there is speculation that it is just a question of time before human sperm is created.

Because the experimentation on the spermoginiser is still in its early stages, the sperm manufactured by the machine has not as yet been utilised, so to speak. And at this time there are no baby Siberian Steppes goats to speak of, but the article intimated that the sperm had been suitably distributed and procreation developments among female Siberian Steppes goats were being carefully monitored.

I couldn’t believe my eyes or my ears.

The girls at the book club were equally incredulous.

“Do you realise what this means?” said Agatha Crump, her eyes flashing and her false teeth glinting as they do when she is aroused. “This means that our lives will be totally run by machines.”

“And the good news,” said Bertha Ginkel, “is that there is a possibility that we might be able to dispense completely with men.”

This was thought-provoking stuff and I looked at my spouse with new eyes as I sat drying my nails with the battery-operated nail-dryer. Were his days numbered? Would he one day be replaced by a Porchov Spermoginiser?

I thought about my life and there is no doubt that Agatha was correct: machines had already taken over to an extent.

At 6 am I was woken by my Hello There Have a Happy Day combination tea-machine and alarm clock, which automatically switched off after 20 seconds and poured me a cup of lemon tea with two sugars, exactly as I liked it.

I adjusted my pacemaker, turned up my electronic hearing aid and then in the bathroom experienced an encounter with my electric toothbrush and electronic back-scratcher.

A little later, in the kitchen, I loaded the washing machine and filled the tumble-dryer, cooked six eggs in the automatic egg-boiler with the bird-cheep buzzer, made 10 pieces of toast in the speedy pop-up toaster, boiled water in the singing electric kettle, then popped the dirty breakfast dishes into Basil the Dishwasher.

Outside I opened the garage with the remote-control garage-opener, the car with the remote-control car-opener and the security gate with the remote-control gate-opener.

However, while pushing the gate button, I was momentarily distracted by the neighbour’s dog attacking my refuse bag; which caused me to bellow raucously and in so doing I neglected to remove my finger from the button.

Alack, the security gate ran off its track and kept running and was last seen going hell-for-leather down Glamorgan Road.

The above few machine-regulated incidents happened during the first 45 minutes of my day, which proved Agatha’s theory of machine control to be accurate.

I discussed the issue with my good friend Betty over a cup of jasmine tea and a Rosenthal plate of herbal-crunch cookies.

A pragmatic person, she was explicit: “Would you invest in a Porchov Spermoginiser if it became available?” she asked curiously.

“Well, it has advantages,” I said cautiously. “I wouldn’t have to iron its shirts, cook it dinner, warm its feet in winter, pour it a beer or have its mother to dinner.”

Betty nodded sagely as she does when deep in thought. “You wouldn’t have to scratch its back, press its trousers, entertain its business associates or discuss rugby with it,” she added.

Yes, I think the concept of a South African spermoginiser will take off like wildfire. Besides, all the women I know would do anything for a good night’s sleep.

■