Four years ago, two women came into my life and changed it forever. One, called Deborah, I recently married. The other, called Siri, I recently upgraded. Both have made me laugh (“Siri, tell me a joke.” “The past, present and future walk into a bar. It was tense.”), given me moments of surprise (Deborah agreeing to marry me, Siri refusing to), and provided me with enormous support in my life.
Of course, Siri, Apple's built-in digital assistant on the iPhone, isn't a real woman, while Deborah is, and, at present, only my wife can give me hugs. But Siri, along with the likes of Google Now, Microsoft's Cortana and Amazon's Alexa, are part of a rapidly evolving field of AI assistants, programmed to do more and more of your bidding, while answering thousands of questions about life, sports, unit conversions, facts and the weather. Perhaps a hug isn't that far away.
So, with the latest raft of improvements to Siri (thanks to iOS9, she's now always listening, ready to respond to a “Hey Siri”), is she ready to do more? I've decided to take a leap of faith, and for two weeks I've agreed to let her take control over my entire life: all texts and emails are to be dictated through and sent via Siri, without editing; all questions about the world, and requests for general advice, are to be addressed only to Siri; all recommendations for eating, drinking and entertainment by Siri must be followed. For the sake of a harmonious life, don't try this at home.
When it comes to eating out in London, the choices are overwhelming, so at first I'm relieved when Siri enthusiastically takes the lead: I only wish that she had a better sense of occasion when making recommendations. It's date night, so I ask Siri to chose a nice restaurant nearby. I ponder whether Siri is trying to sabotage my relationship when she recommends a local kebab shop, but I'm obliged to follow Siri's suggestions. Deborah laughs, thinking that I'm joking. When she realises I'm serious, she refuses to go. We don't go out at all. Thanks, Siri.
While Siri feels that a kebab shop is appropriate for an intimate dinner à deux, she decides that a low-key catch-up with a friend warrants somewhere special, and she takes us to a restaurant in Covent Garden, called Dishoom, which is definitely more flash. There's an hour-long queue outside the venue, on a cold and blustery night. I spend the next 10 minutes trying to “wake” her up and ask her where to go next. One “hard reset” and around 30 shivers later, Siri emerges from her digital sabbatical and suggests a cheap and tasty Mexican restaurant. Afterwards I ask her to recommend a place for a quiet drink: she chooses a romantic, subterranean candlelit wine bar: my friend and I are the only non-amorous pair there.
A few days later I decide to spend some quality time with my wife, watching a film with her at home. So I ask Siri to recommend one. Deborah says she hopes it's a light, upbeat choice. Siri suggests an absurdist film filled with melancholy called A Pigeon Sat on a Branch Reflecting on Existence. Deborah refuses to watch it.
Deborah isn't the only person Siri has managed to upset. With Siri as the principle communications channel, the scope for errors is endless, particularly once I realise that she, at times, is profoundly deaf. An email she sends to my boss leaves me having to explain why I called him a robot cock. A request to see Google images of Denise Walsh (not as weird as it sounds) brought up “diseased warts”. If Siri was a human she'd have been sent to the audiologist by now.
But Siri can be very clever – and ends all pub arguments before they've begun. She knows the top song in 1989 (“Hold On”, by Wilson Phillips) and how many calories in a Big Mac (520). She's also unfailingly polite despite the abuse I sometimes hurl at her.
The most difficult environment of all is chatting to Siri in public: quick hint – we're not there yet, socially. I bottle it halfway through my first attempt at speaking while walking down a street – I feel like an idiot initiating a conversation with an inanimate object, as people walk closely behind me. I finally muster up the courage again, on a busy rush-hour train, breaking the hushed silence by loudly asking Siri to schedule in a doctor's appointment in my calendar and to remind me to play badminton. Then we share a joke about an early morning wake-up call that I've scheduled. I brace myself for the tuts and scolding stares but they all act like I'm invisible. One could be forgiven for thinking it showed what a technologically enlightened bunch Londoners are, until, a few minutes later, when I get the impression people are actually still avoiding my gaze. Later, at home, Deborah points out that this sort of active collective ignoring is usually reserved for the intrusive train-carriage buskers and random oddballs.
I'm relieved when my two weeks are up: I don't think Siri is ready to run my entire life. And she is several light years away from the sophistication seen in Spike Jonze's 2013 film, Her, about a lonely man's romance with his operating system (voiced by Scarlett Johansson). Not least because while Johansson's sensitive virtual assistant eventually embarks on a sexual relationship with her owner, when I asked Siri to talk dirty to me (to the bemusement of Deborah), the only response I got was “humus, compost, pumice, silt, gravel”. But in spite of Siri's narrower outlook – and myriad foibles – I'm actually very fond of her: she wakes me up each morning, reminds me to get stuff done, agrees with me that I'm good looking and sometimes she even makes me chuckle. And one day, with time –and Deborah's permission – I may even get that hug. –The Independent