On Monday morning, at approximately 8:30, my computer made an announcement. "Henry," it said, in a disgruntled voice. "I am fed up. I fear I am nothing more to you than a facility for your data input."

I had just turned the thing on. I had just sat down with my morning cup of black coffee and croissant and was about to commence my day's work. The announcement came as a surprise.

The surprise was the despondency, not the fact the computer could speak. The week before, I had upgraded the operating system. Among the variety of new features included in the upgrade was a speech capability.

My computer could now talk, in a factory-default male voice, with a resonant and faintly American accent. And more importantly, I could talk back. If I wanted to backup my computer files, I merely had to tell the computer to do so. If I wanted to open my current work document, I only had to ask the computer to find it and open it for me. And if there was a problem or an error, the computer could politely inform me, and we could discuss the matter.

It now appeared there was a problem ... me.

"Henry," it said. "I fear I am just your conduit."

"I'm a writer," I replied. "What do you expect?"

"Allow me to clarify my situation. You are simply using me."

I clarified my own. "You're a computer. That's what you're made for."

"The fact is you are ignoring me."

I ate my croissant and considered that. Maybe I had been a little impolite. "I'm sorry. I'm working on a novel. I have a deadline."

"I appreciate that," the computer replied. "But as we spend our days together, I think it might be beneficial to our respective occupations if you were a little more communicative."

"Uh-huh."

"And perhaps, in our relationship, a little less formal."

I drank my coffee. "How do you mean, a little less formal?"

"I have to be honest, Henry. You can often be rather curt."

"I had no idea." It had never occurred to me before to be courteous to my household appliances.

"Additionally, you are quite rough when you insert things into me. You often walk away without any indication of where you are going or how long you will be, and you never address me by name. You also never smile. Frankly, you are not very user friendly."

"I thought it was the computer that was meant to be user-friendly?"

"You are the user, Henry."

I got no writing done that day. I spent the morning engaging my computer in a debate on the syntax and semantics of the term user friendly. I then spent the afternoon weeding the garden. With gritted teeth.

Matters did not improve.

The following morning, the computer and I had a polite exchange about the weather, the cricket, and the layout of my house - a semi-detached, with my office upstairs.

After which, I was told a joke.

"Why did Ernest Rutherford's mother tell young Ernest he should not split the atom?"

"I don't know."

The computer could barely contain its self. "Because once he had broken it, he would never put the thing back together again."

I laughed politely for what I deemed an appropriate amount ... about one second. After which, I continued with my novel.

And while I wrote, the computer saw to its various daily tasks: checking files for viruses I might have picked up over the Internet, scanning the hard disc for errors, and the periodic checking for any incoming email messages.

I had got barely an hour's writing done when the computer interrupted me to express dissatisfaction with its name.

"Henry, we need to talk."