Why I, Bernard Michael Rochford, Refuse to Talk to My Appliances

There are many things I’ve accepted with grace in this modern world. Tap-and-go payments? Brilliant. Digital newspapers? Convenient. Streaming services? A little overwhelming, but manageable.

But there is one line I draw, firmly and without hesitation: Bernard Michael Rochford does not talk to his appliances.

I don’t speak to Siri. I don’t whisper to Alexa. I don’t ask Google to play me the weather in Brisbane or dim the lights in the lounge. Not because I’m paranoid. Not because I’m a technophobe. But because, frankly, it makes me feel ridiculous.

I grew up in a world where you pressed a button to turn on a light and you opened the fridge with your hand—not by shouting at it from across the room. Now, people are asking their toasters for a status update and yelling “Volume down!” into thin air like they’ve been possessed.

It’s unsettling.

I was at my son’s house recently, and he said, “Alexa, turn on the kitchen lights.” And they did. Just like that. I nodded, trying to act impressed, but all I could think was, If you’re standing in the kitchen, why not just flick the switch yourself? Where’s the satisfaction in barking orders at a plastic cylinder?

There’s something deeply human about doing things the old-fashioned way. I like using my hands. I like walking over to the shelf and turning on the radio myself. I like adjusting the fan speed without having a conversation with an invisible robot that calls me “Bernard” with the same enthusiasm it reserves for traffic updates.

Besides, these voice assistants never understand me anyway. I tried using one once at a friend’s house. I said, “Play some jazz.” It played a podcast about cryptocurrency. I tried again. “Jazz, please.” It responded with something called “Jazzercise for Beginners.” I don’t know what part of me sounded like I needed cardio, but I took the hint and turned it off.

There’s a kind of dignity in silence. In doing things with quiet intention. If I want to know the time, I look at the clock. If I want music, I press play. I don’t need a disembodied voice to call me “Sir” and get it wrong half the time.

That said, I’m not against technology. I’ll send a text. I’ll use a smart TV, though I still haven’t figured out what half the buttons on the remote do. But when it comes to daily life, I prefer a little less automation and a little more involvement.

So no, I won’t be asking my fridge to reorder milk or my lights to "set the mood." I’ll keep flicking switches and turning knobs like a man who enjoys being part of the process.

Because Bernard Michael Rochford believes in many things—but talking to the kettle isn’t one of them.

Bernard Michael Rochford
Retired Osteopath | Proud Button-Pusher | Unconvinced by Robots with Names