Like most octogenarians, I imagine, I know little of AI. A friend recently asked ChatGPT to write a poem about me. Within seconds, they (she? he?) responded with: ‘Catwalk at 85: At eighty-five she struts the stage, Refusing to act her proper age, In colours loud as parrot feathers, Silk and sequins, all the weathers. Her hat’s a tower, her shoes a crime, She winks at men half the time, The music booms, she shakes her hips, And blows the crowd two scarlet lips. They say she’s mad; she says ‘Too right,’ And twirls beneath the spotlights bright, Over-confident? Of course, my dear – The queen of excess is still here.’ OK, it’s doggerel, and I probably like it because I’m such an egotist, but isn’t the poem amazing? I begin to sympathise with examiners and teachers who are expected to tell whether students have used AI for essays and...
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