What are the humans to do with their time? (China)

 

After watching his video of the hotel room service bot (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2026/04/room-service-bots-china.html), I texted my friend's brother.

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The worrying thought this hotel bot clip of yours has sparked is:  with such a huge population, what are the humans going to do if bots take over so much of their workload?  Especially the ones with lower levels of education and can only do menial tasks.

A German friend Bernhard from SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies) went to China as an individual traveller in the early 80s.  Sent a postcard saying he went to a park which charged something very small (even by Chinese standards in the 80s, like maybe 10 fen [Chinese cent]) to get in.

1. He went to pay at one window,

2. ⁠went to a second window to get his ticket,

3. ⁠handed his ticket to a third person,

4. ⁠and was let in by a fourth person.

He said at the end of the postcard:  “No wonder they don’t have an unemployment problem.  It took four people to process my visit which cost 10 fen.”

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    My take is that this way (employing four people when one would've sufficed), it meant that three of those four people working at the park were not hanging around at home doing nothing for society, just feeding on the taxpayer's hard-earned money.  Well, in a country where there are state benefits to be had anyway.

    It's good social education for people not to take things for granted, I think.  I know a British woman on state benefits spending "money that the government owed me" on a tattoo (not her first either).  Apart from her attitude, calling it money that the government owed her, tattoos are not a life's staple.

(China, 2026 / early 1980s; London, 2025)

(from googling)

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The cost of a tattoo in the UK generally ranges from a minimum of £50–£90 for tiny, simple designs to £700+ for large, complex pieces (like full sleeves). 

Tattoo prices are heavily dependent on time,, with many artists charging hourly rates ranging from roughly £80–£100 in areas outside London to £150+ per hour in London.

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Moral dilemma

 

One of my reservations about giving money to homeless people is that they might spend it on alcohol or drugs.

    I often play the devil's advocate to the stance people take on any subject, especially with my students as part of the lesson (for language usage and articulation).

    As a Libran, always trying to see the other side of the argument, I do it to myself as well.

    On the subject of homeless people buying alcohol or drugs, my devil's advocate question to myself is:  "What's wrong with that?  Their lives are miserable enough, so who are we to say they shouldn't try and numb the pain in this way?  If they prefer emotional painkillers to food, it's their choice."

    It's not always easy to stand that far back and distance oneself that much, though.

    Someone I know who's been on state benefits for years went and got a tattoo with "the money that the government owed me".  Owed her!?  I was shocked by her attitude: it's money the government owed her.

    She gets free housing, and the rest of the state benefits package, yet she buys expensive snacks (note: snacks, not staples) for her two dogs -- things like dried liver sausage (which googling tells me is £10–£35 per kg).

    Am I to tell myself that I shouldn't object to her spending my tax money on a tattoo and expensive dried liver sausage snacks for her two dogs (among other things -- a long list)?

The village idiot (France)

The village idiot, as he is commonly referred to behind his back, comes round to the farmhouse twice a day for coffee — morning and afternoon, rain or shine.  

If no-one’s home, he'll help himself, drink his coffee in solitude and leave.  

With someone around, he’ll try to conduct a conversation.  I’ve heard the mistress of the house utter, at regular intervals, monosyllables such as “qui?” (who?) and “où?” (where?), which are really just to keep the conversation going, since neither she nor anyone else understands most of his utterances, as they don’t make sense, I’m told.

Such has been his routine for nobody knows how long, perhaps as a welcome escape from his Cinderella existence at his brother’s up the road where neither the brother nor sister-in-law speaks to him.  They don’t even leave him food when they go away, I heard.  They claim state benefits for his condition but he’s somehow not considered too stupid to work in their kitchen garden as unpaid (and sometimes unfed) labour.

The seven-year-old grandson on our farm, who visits during school holidays, openly dodged him one day, when the village idiot went up to him to shake his hand in greeting, dismissing him with a loud “AU REVOIR, MONSIEUR!”  

I delivered a lecture afterwards, translated by his mother, about needing to be extra nice to people like that — even more so given that he’s in his mid-seventies — as they need as much love as they can get, if not more than most people, and this one has not been getting any, it seems.  I asked the boy how he would feel if his grandfather (a year younger) were treated in that way by some other boy.  

The next day, the boy’s mother proudly announced that my admonition had taken effect, as he’d been polite to the village idiot on his morning visit.

To go with his coffee, I try and give the village idiot whatever titbits I have bought in London or locally for the house, as it must be a rare commodity in his life.

Summer last year, he turned up around lunchtime when we had company, so we put another plate on the table and invited him to join the party.  He thoroughly enjoyed himself, beaming from ear to ear, with all these people to sit, eat and talk with.

Village idiot he might be, he still has enough social manners to bring with him for his coffee visits a little present from his vegetable patch: often a freshly dug-up lettuce or, in the autumn, some apples (which are often not particularly edible).  Occasionally, it’s something incomprehensible like a plum tree cutting, which was what he brought last week.

The dogs on the farm have the routine practice of barking at cars and people not from the family, so one always knows whether it’s a visitor approaching the farmhouse or a family member.  (I’m accepted as family, for they don’t bark at me.)  

For some reason, whichever generation the dogs might be (and I have outlived three generations of them since my first visit in 1996), although the village idiot has been coming every single day, rain or shine, twice a day, the dogs still bark at him every time, without fail.  The daughter says maybe even the dogs sense that something’s not quite right about him.

On one of my visits a couple of years back, my attention was drawn to a photo opportunity with the mother going round the farm, trailed by Dino the scruffy dog (featured in a couple of my other blogs: Dino the dirty dog, Aptly-named dog) and the runaway hen (featured in The loner hen) behind him.  

I got my camera ready, the daughter whipped open the rear kitchen door, and there was the village idiot who happened to be passing by just as I was about to press the shutter.  As soon as he spotted the camera, he spread out his arms in a “ta-ra” Broadway-musical pose and a big grin.  

As if that instantaneous and instinctive response wasn’t remarkable enough, he then said, with one hand placed on his hip in a cocky fashion, “Now show that photo to your boyfriend!”

With such a sense of humour and wit, I’m not so sure he’s that much of an idiot after all.

PS:  I’m told by my French student, Hélène Cassaigne, that there’s a village idiot in every place around France.

(France, May 2012)

Dino the dirty dog:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/dino-dirty-dog.html 

Aptly-named dog: https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2012/01/aptly-named-dog-france.html 

The loner hen:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/loner-hen.html