ChatGPT

Can AI Make Me Laugh?

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My previous blog post about feminism has left me feeling a little glum about all the work left to do. I’m wondering can AI make me laugh? I love words so I will ask what are the three funniest typos ever? I’ll start by asking ChatGPT.

I’m a bit startled by the words “Good to see you” for two reasons, firstly I don’t think ChatGPT can see me and secondly I am dressed for a quiet evening.

Anyway, here’s the answer:

Two of these typos are genital based and it reminded me of the time I typed Nob instead of Nov. I wonder if I can make ChatGPT laugh by telling it I once typed Nobmember instead of November? I shall try.

ChatGPT’s answer was better than I expected.

Would I like a fake holiday? Oh yes.

Excellent. Here’s an official fake holiday for Nobmember:

🎉 International Day of Accidental Innuendo

📅 Celebrated on: Nobmember 14th
🗣️ Motto: “It’s not what I meant, but now it’s funnier.”

🌍 Description:

A day to honor the beautiful chaos of typos, double entendres, and autocorrect fails that turn innocent sentences into snort-laugh disasters. Whether you meant to write “shirt” but didn’t, or told your boss you were “busting” instead of “bursting” with ideas—this is your day.

🪧 Traditions:

  • Share your most embarrassing or hilarious typos on social media using the hashtag #NobmemberFails
  • Read out loud texts you regret sending without pre-reading
  • Host a “Typo Toast” night where friends bring snacks labeled with intentionally misspelled names (e.g., “chikkin nuglets,” “beered cheese”)
  • Play AutoWrong, a game where everyone uses autocorrect and can’t edit messages

📜 Fun Fact:

Legend says the first Nobmember celebration began when someone sent a very earnest business email that read:

“I look forward to pubic collaboration this Nobmember.”

They are now a legend.

Would you like a poster or meme image made for it?

Both please!

Asking for both please resulted in just one image. When I asked please create a meme image I got the same image again. However, ChatGPT has entertained me and has not been very rude, just a little bit cheeky. Let’s see what Copilot does;

I’ll now see if Copilot is amused when I tell it I once typed Nobmember instead of November.

It seems churlish not to take Copilot up on the offer to write a scene where a typo spiral wildly out of control…

It occurs to me that Copilot is starting to incorporate my previous queries and so I might want to ask it to forget. I’ve been using Chat GPT and Copilot for six days. Here is what my Chats look like:

Here is what my Conversations look like:

I realise I have learnt that ChatGPT calls my requests chats and Copilot calls them conversations.

Asking ChatGPT and Copilot the Same Complicated Question

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I realise I’ve been using AI for relatively trivial purposes so I’ll ask a big question; Where should feminism focus its efforts in order to achieve gender equality in the shortest possible time?

Chat GPT produced this answer;

This was a comprehensive answer. Let’s see what Copilot has to say;

Again a good answer but I think the ChatGPT inclusion of intersectionality makes it stronger. I wonder what progress will have been made if I ask again in a decade?

Asking ChatGPT and Copilot the Same Question – What are the ten Best Biscuits?

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I like listicles, those articles which are essentially a list. I’m going to ask about the ten best biscuits. I expect the chocolate digestive to come out very high in both lists. Here’s ChatGPT’s answer;

Here’s Copilot’s answer;

Both lists are similar and I feel like I’ve read this content many times before. This is much more a reflection of how I spend my time and not a criticism of AI. To introduce a debate I’ll ask which is better the Penguin or the Tim Tam? Here is ChatGPT’s answer;

Here is Copilot’s answer;

I’ve eaten more Tim Tams than Penguins recently. I’m unsure if this trend will continue. If you would like a biscuit focused day out I recommend going to Reading Museum and viewing their collection of Huntley & Palmer’s biscuits tins. They have a splendid top ten of these should you not live near Berkshire/be unwilling to go on real world biscuit based excursions.

Asking ChatGPT and Copilot the Same Question – What are the ten Best Christmas Books?

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I have a lot of Christmas books, see shelfie below. I’ll ask both ChatGPT and Copilot what the ten best christmas books are. I’m expecting to have heard of a lot of them.

Here’s ChatGPT’s answer;

I’m aware of nine out of ten of these books. It’s a good list. Here is Copilot’s answer;

I’m aware of eight out of ten of these books. Charles Dickens is still the favourite after all these years!

Asking ChatGPT and Copilot the Same Question – How to Write a Successful book

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I am going to ask ChatGPT and Copilot the same thing and see what answers I get. I sat outside Blackwell’s bookshop in Oxford today and thought how wonderful it would be if my book was in the window.

So this will be my prompt; I would like to write a successful book that gets displayed in Blackwell’s window. What should I write a book about? What should the title of my book be?

This was the response when I asked Copilot on 10th June 2025

I notice I didn’t actually get a book title.

This was the response when I asked ChatGPT on 10th June 2025

Both Copilot and ChatGPT knew that Blackwell’s is splendid. I got more assistance towards my goal from ChatGPT.

Asking ChatGPT to Write a Synopsis of Eviscerated Panda A Metal Tale

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I am not very good at writing synopses so I’m wondering if ChatGPT is better.

This is good but not quite accurate. It’s the first book in a six book saga not a continuation. I also wouldn’t call the characters misfits.

I have a blurb I wrote;

This is ChatGPT’s blurb;

It’s good apart from the reference to eyeliner. I’d also swap Download for Wacken. But this is a great starting point. I’ll try a tweak asking for an older, international audience.

Well I’d read that book. Thanks ChatGPT.

My Fifth Go At ChatGPT – Cleo Howard’s Diary

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For my fifth go at ChatGPT I will try to create a diary entry for Cleo Howard on 1st January 1998 based on her 1997 diary which I will provide the text of.

I can’t add the large text (55,162 words) as a message but I can attach a file.

ChatGPT: Great, thanks for sharing the diary! Based on Cleo Howard’s detailed entries from 1997, here’s a New Year’s diary entry for her on 1st January 1998 that stays true to her tone, voice, and interests:

Thursday 1st January 1998

Happy New Year, Diary!

Woke up with glitter in my hair and a headache that felt like it was playing Megadeth on repeat. That’s what Malibu, cider and trying to headbang to Pantera in a living room full of fairy lights will do to you. We celebrated New Year’s Eve at Jenni’s. Her parents were being cool and even Pam had a glass of red wine (organic, obviously). Me, Jenni, Ian and Shot stayed up to watch the fireworks on telly and shout “1998!” like it was going to make the world better. It didn’t, but it was loud and that’s what matters.

Everyone made toasts. Mine was to passing GCSEs and seeing a band with actual guitars before the year ends. Ian toasted to growing his hair longer than Kirk Hammett’s (I give it a month before he trims it because it’s in his eyes). Jenni toasted to more eyeliner and less Ella.

Danni kissed three people at midnight, including Ian, but I don’t think Sally needs to know that. Barry didn’t come last night—he had to stay in with his mum who had “a migraine” (aka didn’t want to be alone). He called me just after midnight and said he wished he could’ve kissed me when the fireworks went off. I told him to imagine that I did, and then we both went quiet because it was almost romantic.

Mum got up at 9am, hoovered the stairs and said “New year, new start” like it was a threat. She says we’ve got to eat healthy now, so she made lentil soup and I pretended to like it. I’m craving cheese on toast and chocolate digestives.

I’ve made some resolutions:

  1. Don’t fail any subjects, especially not English (Miss Wallace would give me that disappointed face).
  2. See a band live—any band. Preferably not one that has a keytar.
  3. Learn how to play at least one whole song on bass.
  4. Stop wasting time wondering if Barry likes me as much as I like him (he does, probably).
  5. Keep writing everything down. You never know when your life will get interesting.

Also, I saw on Ceefax that the top single right now is that Teletubbies one. 1998 has a lot to make up for.

Right, off to write “Cleo was here 1998” on the back of my wardrobe and then maybe eat the last bit of Christmas cake before Mum throws it out for being “dangerously past its best-before.”

Rock on, future me.
—Cleo 🤘

My comments: This is quite good but “Ian toasted to growing his hair longer than Kirk Hammett’s (I give it a month before he trims it because it’s in his eyes).” is not accurate. Ian would not be taking hair inspo from Kirk Hammett and he would not be trimming his hair for being in his eyes. Cleo’s mum would never make lentil soup, it’s too effortful and middle-class for her character. Cleo wouldn’t know what a keytar is. They are not a heavy metal instrument. Also, Christmas cake would not be thrown out on January 1st for being out of date, that stuff lasts ages.

ChatGPT: Would you like a few more entries for January 1998 to continue the tone and narrative?

Friday 2nd January 1998

Went into town with Jenni. Reading was full of people dragging children around and pretending not to be hungover. We went to HMV and I spent the last of my Christmas money on a Metallica badge and a copy of Kerrang! with Marilyn Manson on the cover looking like a haunted stick insect.

Jenni bought a Sisters of Mercy patch for her coat. She says she’s going to start sewing band patches on like armour. I might do the same, except I can’t sew in a straight line and last time I tried, I pricked my finger and got blood on my Danzig T-shirt. Very metal, but Mum wasn’t impressed.

Saw Barry for a bit—he looked tired but still hot in that way where his hair’s a bit messy and he smells faintly of Lynx Africa and chocolate. We snogged in the alley behind the arcade and someone walked past and coughed “get a room”. If I had a room, I would.

Mum has decided we need to clear out the “junk drawer” in the kitchen. I found a cassette single of 2 Unlimited’s “No Limit” in there. Dark times.

Saturday 3rd January 1998

Went round Ian’s. We made resolutions for WhyY2K, even though they don’t technically exist yet.

Ian’s band resolutions:

  1. Get a gig somewhere that isn’t a garage.
  2. Write a song that makes someone spontaneously headbang.
  3. Not let Ella sing, even as a joke.

We made toast and watched Beavis and Butt-Head Do America on video. Ian reckons I laugh like Beavis when I’m hyper. Rude. We also played The Adverts Game and I beat him for once! My proudest moment was guessing “Woolworths” from a shot of a child putting glitter in a trolley.

Sally called twice while I was there. Ian rolled his eyes both times. He’s got a look he does now—equal parts affection and mild despair.

Sunday 4th January 1998

Spent most of the day avoiding tidying my room. Mum said if I don’t clear up the pile of socks and CDs by the wardrobe, she’s going to chuck them out. I told her that pile is my filing system.

Watched The Royle Family with Barry. Jim said “you can’t polish a turd” and Barry laughed so hard he snorted Pepsi. It’s weird watching a show that feels more like real life than real life.

Found the diary I kept in 1996. I used to sign off every entry with “Stay cool, Cleo” and now I want to crawl into a bin and never return. At least I don’t do that anymore.

Monday 5th January 1998

Back to school tomorrow. Kill me.

Everyone says Year 11 is the most important year of your life, but they said that about Year 10 too, so I’m starting to think adults just enjoy saying that. Jenni says if they say it again next year she’s going to scream.

Rearranged the badges on my school bag. Ramones, Type O Negative, L7. I want to look like I’m too cool to care while still very obviously caring.

Barry says he might get his eyebrow pierced. I told him if he does, I’ll get my nose done. I probably won’t. But I like the idea of us both being slightly more metal.

I wish I could stay up all night and sleep all day like I did in the holidays. Instead, I’m off to bed before eleven like some sort of respectable human. Gross.

ChatGPT: Would you like more entries covering the rest of January 1998? I can keep Cleo’s tone consistent and develop her thoughts and relationships with Barry, Ian, Jenni, and school stuff further.

No thanks ChatGPT. I’m a bit spooked by your entries. In parts they feel like things I wrote and forgot about and in part the detail is wrong and I know I didn’t write them. I also don’t like the insinuation that Cleo may have bought a 2 Unlimited cassingle in the past. I can assure you she wouldn’t waste her precious money. She also wouldn’t get a piercing because Barry did. One more thing though…

It’s an okay cover, a bit generic perhaps. I haven’t heard Crimson Thorn before, but their song Sarcastic Deviation over on YouTube is decent. Death Flame don’t seem to exist and nor do Dark Conquest. I decided to find out a little more about ChatGPT’s musical tastes…

Chat GPT asks a good question. The younger me would say Ozzy, but the me who saw Heaven & Hell at Wacken Open Air came to appreciate Dio.

ChatGPT seems a useful sort of software. I wonder what I’ll do with it next?

My Fourth Go At ChatGPT – A Honeywick Christmas Miracle

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For my fourth go at generating a Cotswolds Christmas story using ChatGPT I stayed in Honeywick, specified British English and added a phone shop.

A Honeywick Christmas Miracle
by ChatGPT

The frosty breath of winter lay like icing sugar over the thatched roofs of Honeywick, a sleepy village nestled among the rolling hills of the Cotswolds. Christmas Eve had arrived, and the narrow high street was aglow with fairy lights, their reflections shimmering in puddles left by an early morning drizzle. The scent of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts wafted from the market stalls in the square, where villagers bustled about in scarves and woolly hats.

At the very end of the street stood a curious little shop painted bright teal, its gold-lettered sign reading Honeywick Phones & Repairs – Est. 1993. Inside, surrounded by shelves of phone cases and tangled charging cables, stood Nora Pembroke, the shop’s owner and only employee. At sixty-two, Nora had run the shop since her husband passed, and while business had slowed in recent years, she took pride in keeping the place tidy and warm.

At half-past three, as the last customer left with a newly mended screen, Nora sighed and flipped the sign to Closed. She was just about to lock up when the door burst open with a gust of cold air and a flurry of snowflakes.

“Mrs Pembroke! Wait!”

It was Charlie Wilkes, the vicar’s son, barely sixteen and red-faced from running.

“My phone—it’s dead, and I need it. Please. It’s urgent.”

Nora blinked. “Urgent? On Christmas Eve?”

He nodded furiously. “I’ve sent a message, but I don’t know if it went through, and now it won’t turn back on. I need to know. Please.”

Intrigued, Nora took the phone. It was an older model, battered and full of fingerprints. She set to work in the back room, humming a carol while she replaced the battery with a spare.

Fifteen minutes later, the screen blinked to life. One new text message.

“Here you are, love,” she said, handing it back.

Charlie’s eyes darted across the screen. His mouth fell open.

“She said yes!” he shouted, startling Nora. “She’s coming! She’s really coming!”

“Who is?” Nora asked, bemused.

“Amelia! She moved to Bath last summer. I told her I’d wait. I asked if she’d come to the carol service tonight, and she said yes!”

He grinned, then impulsively hugged her. “You saved Christmas!”

After he left, Nora chuckled and returned to her tea. She didn’t expect anyone else. But at five past five, the bell chimed again.

It was her daughter, Emma, with her two little boys.

“You’re early!” Nora gasped.

Emma smiled. “Got your message. The one you sent this morning—‘Come if you can. It’s been too long.’ We thought… well, it’s Christmas.”

Nora blinked back tears. She hadn’t realised it had gone through. “I didn’t think you’d see it.”

The boys ran to her, and she knelt to hug them tightly.

Outside, the snow fell thick and silent, blanketing Honeywick in a gentle hush. Inside the phone shop, laughter rang out, warm as a hearth, and the flickering lights in the window danced like stars.

That night, every pew in the church was filled. And as the choir sang O Come All Ye Faithful, Nora caught Charlie’s eye and winked.

A Honeywick Christmas miracle, indeed.

My comments:

The first paragraph is great scene setting.

When Honeywick Phones & Repairs – Est. 1993 began texting was in its infancy, there is a great BBC news article about this, which includes the date of 3rd December 1992 as the first text message sent. I could make this story longer by blending fiction and reality and adding some information about this.

“surrounded by shelves of phone cases and tangled charging cables, stood Nora Pembroke, the shop’s owner and only employee.”

It’s quite impractical a shop having only one employee but does explain why the charging cables are tangled. Nora simply doesn’t have the time to untangle them.

She hadn’t realised it had gone through.

The above refers to a text message that Nora, a woman who has worked in a phone shop since 1993, sent to her daughter. It seems unlikely that Nora would use an unreliable phone or mobile provider. However, it’s not possible to know that an SMS message has been delivered and signal in the Cotswolds can be patchy.

It’s always Christmas Eve in Honeywick.

That night, every pew in the church was filled.

Church attendance does go up at Christmas, I took a quick look at some attendance figures for Stow on the Wold.

And now my favourite bit, generating the book cover. It occured to me that maybe I don’t need to describe the cover, maybe I can just continue the dialogue with ChatGPT so I tried this.

The first thing I notice about this image is that the people in it are making odd expressions with their faces. They look a bit like Tony Blair smiling on a Christmas card. The second thing I notice is that the phone shop was established in 1903 which is inconsistent with the date in the story.

I decided to be polite and thank ChatGPT. It has written four stories and designed four covers for me.

My Third Go At ChatGPT – A Christmas Gift in Honeywick

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I’ve specified that the Cotswold village should be fictional for my third go. I am wondering if I’ll get a honey-coloured stone description, a Penrose and a postal element.

A Christmas Gift in Honeywick

Nestled in the frosty folds of the Cotswold hills, the village of Honeywick looked like something from a snow globe. Stone cottages lined the cobbled lanes, their honey-colored walls dusted with snow. Fairy lights twinkled in every window, and the scent of mulled cider and pine boughs wafted through the air.

Among the villagers was twelve-year-old Elsie Harrow, who lived with her grandmother, Maud, above the Honeywick Stationery & Books shop. Maud had run the shop for nearly forty years, and though she claimed her bones were “too old for counters and Christmas queues,” she still opened the doors every day, even on Christmas Eve.

Elsie adored the shop. She especially loved the smell — a comforting blend of paper, ink, and old leather. But the shop’s most beloved resident wasn’t Maud or even Elsie — it was Pickle, a sleek grey cat with an imperious attitude and a habit of curling up on the warmest notebook display.

That Christmas Eve, Honeywick was bustling. Children queued for gingerbread at the bakery, and the bell above the stationery shop chimed constantly as villagers popped in for last-minute cards and ribbons. Elsie manned the wrapping station, humming carols while Pickle lounged beside her, twitching his tail each time the ribbon curled.

Around midday, a boy Elsie didn’t recognize came in. He looked about her age, bundled in a coat that had clearly seen better winters. His name was Tom, he said, recently moved to Honeywick with his dad, who’d taken a job at the local garage.

Tom wandered the shop slowly, his eyes wide as he examined the shelves. Eventually, he stopped at the notebook table, where Pickle yawned and stretched before hopping into his lap as if he’d chosen a new favorite human.

“This one’s special,” Elsie said, pointing to a dark blue notebook with gold-embossed stars. “It’s made by a local artist — the paper’s hand-stitched and the cover’s painted with real indigo.”

Tom ran his fingers over it with reverence, but shook his head. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t have enough. I just wanted to find something for my dad. He used to write stories when Mum was around. I thought maybe…”

Before Elsie could answer, Maud appeared behind the counter, eyes twinkling. “That notebook’s half price today,” she said firmly. “Christmas special.”

Tom hesitated, then beamed, pulling out a few carefully folded notes. He thanked them shyly and left with Pickle trotting after him as far as the door before returning to his sunspot.

That night, after the shop closed and the village square echoed with the last notes of the carolers, Elsie found something beneath the tiny tree in their flat. A square parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with blue string.

Inside was a notebook — pale green, embossed with her initials. Tucked inside the front cover was a note in Maud’s careful handwriting: “For your stories. The world needs them.”

Elsie looked at Pickle, who blinked back approvingly. She ran her hand over the cover, heart full. Outside, snow began to fall again, soft and slow, as Honeywick settled into a Christmas night wrapped in peace and promise.

My comments:

Things I notice are that we have honey-coloured again and we have US English spelling. The village name of Honeywick is charming. I can imagine Winnie-the-Pooh visiting but I won’t include him in future generated stories for copyright reasons.

This extract: “Maud had run the shop for nearly forty years, and though she claimed her bones were “too old for counters and Christmas queues,” she still opened the doors every day, even on Christmas Eve.”

Taken with Evelyn the aged post-mistress from the first story I generated, this makes me worry about the retirement prospects of women in fictional Cotswold villages. Are these women Women Against State Pension Inequality (WASPI) women?

“Pickle, a sleek grey cat with an imperious attitude and a habit of curling up on the warmest notebook display.”

I have just felt all my notebooks and they are all equally warm. They aren’t displays though. Is Pickle a good cat name? I would call a sleek grey cat Smoky which I think makes me less imaginative than Chat GPT.

“His name was Tom, he said, recently moved to Honeywick with his dad, who’d taken a job at the local garage.”

A Hallmark made for Christmas movie began to unroll itself in my head when I read the above sentence. Chat GPT seems to like the name Tom. We had a Tom in my second story too. We have no postal element this time.

So now for the book cover. I’ve specified the title of the story, the colour of the cat and the colour of the notebook Tom buys.

The thing I notice about this cover is that Stationery is spelt correctly once and incorrectly once.

I think for my fourth go at creating a Christmas story set in a fictional Cotswold village I’ll stick with the name Honeywick, specify use of British English and maybe add a modern element because all three stories so far have felt a bit generic.

I went to the lovely Marlow Bookshop just after generating this book cover and I treated myself to a new notebook.

My Second Go At ChatGPT – A Cotswold Christmas at The Holly Crown

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For my second go at ChatGPT I asked it to write a 500 word story about Christmas set in a Cotswold village pub and including the pub dog and a special gift for one of the customers. It came up with this:

A Cotswold Christmas at The Holly Crown

Snow blanketed the Cotswold village of Bibury, frosting honey-stone cottages and tracing delicate outlines on every leaf and lamppost. Twinkling fairy lights crisscrossed the lane, leading to the heart of the village: The Holly Crown, an old pub with beams thick as tree trunks and a hearth that had warmed generations.

Inside, the scent of mulled wine and roasting chestnuts mingled with woodsmoke. Locals had gathered early, escaping the crisp air and bringing with them laughter, stories, and tins of homemade biscuits. The pub dog, a stocky black-and-tan terrier named Bertie, made his rounds with a jingling collar, accepting ear ruffles and the occasional dropped sausage.

Landlady Gwen, wrapped in a festive red jumper with a snowflake brooch, moved deftly behind the bar. She had run The Holly Crown for twenty years and knew every face, every pint preference, and every Christmas toast.

At the end of the bar sat Tom Penrose, a quiet man in his sixties with kind eyes and weathered hands. A retired postman, Tom had delivered letters through sleet and sun for four decades, and though he rarely said much, everyone greeted him warmly. He nursed a pint of bitter and occasionally offered Bertie a bit of pork crackling from his paper napkin.

Unbeknownst to Tom, the village had been whispering for weeks. Gwen had started it, and soon it spread like holly on a hedge. The idea: a gift. Something proper. Every villager had quietly contributed what they could, slipping coins and folded notes into a red tin behind the bar labeled “For Father Christmas.”

Now, on Christmas Eve, the fire crackled, the carolers outside were halfway through “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”, and Gwen tapped her glass with a spoon.

“Right, quiet down!” she said with a grin. “Before we all get too merry, there’s something we need to do.”

She reached beneath the bar and pulled out a long, narrow box wrapped in gold paper and tied with a green ribbon.

“Tom Penrose, up you come.”

Tom blinked, surprised, as the crowd clapped and parted for him. Bertie trotted beside him like a fuzzy little pageboy.

“We wanted to thank you,” Gwen said, placing the gift in his hands. “For delivering our post in the worst of weathers. For remembering every birthday and checking on old Mrs. Digby when no one else noticed her light hadn’t come on. You’ve given this village decades of kindness. Now, we’re giving something back.”

Tom carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside was a set of high-quality watercolours and a leather-bound sketchbook. He stared, speechless.

“We heard you used to paint,” Gwen added gently. “Thought maybe it was time you started again.”

For a moment, Tom said nothing, his eyes misty. Then he looked around at the faces, at Gwen, and finally at Bertie, who wagged his tail as if he knew everything.

“Thank you,” Tom said quietly. “This… this means more than I can say.” The pub erupted into cheers, and as the fire roared and the night deepened, The Holly Crown glowed with the kind of warmth no hearth alone could offer—a warmth built from friendship, gratitude, and the simple magic of Christmas.

My comments:

Bibury is a real place in Cirencester. I was hoping for a fictional Cotswold place name. How do we know we’re in the Cotswolds? It seems to be the honey-coloured stone.

Bertie is a good dog name. I’m very happy with this.

“Landlady Gwen, wrapped in a festive red jumper.”

Bit impractical to be wrapped in a jumper. I imagine I can see her bra straps. It might have been better if she was just wearing it in the normal pulling it over your head type of way. Although being wrapped makes Gwen feel like a present.

The Holly Crown falls just short of being a convincing real pub name. But I could change this to The Crown or The Holly Bush.

“At the end of the bar sat Tom Penrose, a quiet man in his sixties with kind eyes and weathered hands. A retired postman,”

When I had my first go at getting ChatGPT to create me a Christmas story I had a vicar called Mr Penrose (I would expect the Rev. Penrose but am not an expert on religious matters) and the main character was a post-mistress. Chat GPT seems a bit keen on postal elements and the surname Penrose. I think I’ll test this with a third go at creating a similar sort of story and see if post and Penrose pop up again. The most famous Penrose I can think of is Sir Roger Penrose, whose Penrose tiling is lovely. I wonder if ChatGPT can create tiling this attractive? I wonder if any mention of the Cotswolds will also include honey-coloured stone?

ChatGPT has spelt labelled and carollers wrong, missing the second l both times.

Also, is Tom Penrose carrying pork crackling in his pocket to the pub in a napkin? Or is he buying pork scratchings there and decanting them into a napkin?

In general though, this is a pleasant festive tale. ChatGPT has done as I asked.

Now for the book cover. Unlike on my first go, ChatGPT didn’t check the concept with me before creating the cover. This has resulted in the wrong kind of dog (to tie in with the story, obviously the dog pictured is a lovely dog and not wrong in any other sense). Tom Penrose looks okay, he’s dressed greener then Robin Hood but maybe that’s his fave colour.

I’m going to have a third go at a Christmas story set in the Cotswolds tomorrow.