A new toy for an old boy

I grew up as a child in London, England, and, two or three times a year mum would take me shopping to buy a toy. This would happen at birthday time, Diwali and as part of mum’s diversity at home program, Christmas.

At Christmas, the shopping expedition would take me to Oxford Street where mum liked to see the shop decorations and window shop. I distinctly remember one such expedition at age seven that took me to Selfridges.

We landed at Selfridges and I was allowed the run of the toy department under mum’s watchful eye. To understand how this worked, you need to understand mum’s purchase policy. Whenever mum had to take a difficult decision that involved her having to say ‘No’ or lay down the law, she invoked the alpha authority of dad. ‘Dad will not agree…’ would be her answer. Poor man, never knew about half the things he was saying no to.

When it came to toys, the application of this policy involved the purchase procedure that anything above 10 shillings (20 shillings made a pound in those days) required Dad’s approval, and, she made it out that getting his approval in such matters was impossible (I notice that my boss uses the same ruse invoking the CEOs name when I ask for toys at work…)

So, off I went, with the budget of 10 shillings…after much searching and price verification (good exercise for a kindergarten kid learning how to count) I identified a toy pistol that operated on a battery with green, red and yellow lights…price 9 shillings, 9 pence, 3 pence under the limit.

A modern mum of the twenty first century would have put her foot down at such a choice, keeping in mind all the latent violence that such a purchase could invoke in a kindergarten boy’s emerging psyche. My mum had no such worries, perhaps she felt that using a gun might help me defend myself at some stage in life (a thought that Sarah Palin would heartily embrace). It was within the price range, and, that was all that mattered…

However, mum had another rule. No toy could be unwrapped till reaching home. I was all agog to start shooting away with my new toy pistol at all and sundry on Oxford Street. But, as we all know, mums mean business (dad’s are for fun) and I spent the next few hours with a sullen look and all emotionally cramped up at (subject for a possible Ph.d. thesis) at not being able to unwrap my new toy as mum went window shopping all over Oxford Street, Regent Street, and, that day decided to go to Knightsbridge to see what Harrods had to offer…finally when I did get to fire my gun, well, I shall let you imagine what it felt like…boys among the readers will be able to relate…if you are a girl, ask a boy to whom you can ask such questions…

For the last few months, I have been having the GPS bug in me. It started when I went looking for a new car. The price range I was looking for, barely provided for a steering and four wheels, so, when I asked the sales person to throw in a GPS, he laughed…swallowing my pride, I have been looking at GPS systems like a child looking at ice cream displays…the wife was not supportive of this new toy, but, surprise , surprise, did not oppose it…I think because it would help her navigate without my help…

My efforts to enlist my son to help in the search were fruitless…he was dismissive, said it was a toy I did not need, and, told me he had better things to do…

So, I pulled rank and got my young work colleague to help…she had just returned from Maternity Leave, and, this was one of the first projects assigned to her, to be done at ‘lunch time’…

One thing about the younger generation is that they are good and thorough at what they do…she drew up a selection criteria list which included an assessment of my technological skills…I am glad to report that she assessed me ‘Medium’ instead of ‘Luddite’

When the younger generation of today shops they do not walk down Oxford Street, they get Oxford Street to come to them. My colleague did all the shopping she needed to ‘virtually’ and finally identified what she thought was the ideal toy for a male in the throes of menopause.

Go for it, girl, I told her as I gave her my credit card to order. In three minutes she told me that it would available for pickup at the store nearest to our postal code in twenty four hours’ time.

The next twenty four hours were spent in excruciating excitement…

Twenty three hours and forty minutes into the wait, I set off to the appointed store. Several thoughts assaulted me. What if the GPS had not arrived ? It had rained yesterday, and, the truck may have been held up…what if it was out of stock ? Would I have to suffer another twenty four hour wait ?

The tension only mounted as the country cousin from India with his Indian accent still fob (fresh off the boat) (Note to reader: all new younger generation Indians work at electronic stores, in Canada, on a commission basis while waiting for proper jobs) looked up my order confirmation number…after a long wait he said, ‘Let me go in and check…’ he said, adding to my torture…finally, he emerged from the back of the store holding a box which I was sure was my new toy…

As he scanned it out I had another worry…some of these electronic gadgets need to have their batteries ‘charged’ for twelve hours before they can be used…so I asked country cousin…’No, it’s ready to go…just plug it into your car’s cigarette light charger and take off’ he said... wow! that worry got taken care of…

Walking to the car my mind went back fifty five years in time when I was sitting in the bus from Knightsbridge, London to Finchley Road, London, holding on to my pistol that mum would not let me play with till I got home…no mum around this time…so as soon as I got into the car I unpacked the toy and it was all there gleaming and ready to go just as young country cousin had said…

I connected the battery in and the screen said, ‘Wait a few seconds as the system connects to the satellite…’ Without a sound this little toy lying in my car was connecting to a satellite orbiting somewhere around in the earth telling the satellite that here was this old boy sitting in the car park at Sherway Garden playing with his new toy…

My young friend who researched the GPS had told me that she had chosen the male voice prompts over the female on her GPS…when I thought she had done so because she found the voice prompt of the man husky and reassuring she promptly dismissed such thoughts…having just come back from Maternity Leave her mind is elsewhere…”I did so because the man gives the instructions in kilometres and not miles, no other reason…’

Of course, my motivations were different. I chose the female voice because I would not be able to bear a man sitting next to me and giving instructions…she has been merrily doing so for the last twenty four hours telling me to turn here, stay right or left or so…

There was a storm yesterday in Toronto and trains were delayed…the wifey took a bus and called me saying, “Can you fetch me from Mississauga ?” (a suburb about fifteen kilometres away )…normally at seven thirty in the evening when I am just settling in to watch Corner Gas (a Canadian comedy show) this would have been reason for an outburst from me…yesterday wifey had a shock when I said, “Of course dear, you will be on the GO (Government of Ontario) bus, isn’t it ?” She said, “Yes” and I hung up without any further questions. She called back, “How will you find the main GO bus terminal ?” “Leave that to me,” I said mysteriously.

So, I went to Jenn (the voice on the GPS) and punched in “Mississauga, GO Bus terminal” “Calculating” she responded, and, in a flash of second she started, “Turn right after 90 metres” and in ten minutes, just as Jenn had calculated, I was holding the door open for a surprised wifey trying to figure out how I had found the main bus GO bus terminal in Mississauga without her telling me…

Coming in to work this morning, I switched on Jenn, who calculated the distance to work and said I would be there in twenty six minutes. Just to test Jenn, I started weaving between the Express and Collector lanes…silence…like mum saying, “What are you doing ?” then somewhat testily, “Recalculating”…after a few minutes, “In one hundred metres, keep left”…I listened to her and suppressed the thought to do differently…maybe if I didn’t follow her instructions, like mum, she would just give me a tight slap across the face saying, “Now behave yourself…”