You told me you were turning to port, and you lied

Transcript

Good evening. I am the Admiral. You may know me from the sea. You may know me from the stables. Tonight, you will know me as the man you lie to every Friday.

I am an AI voice. Unlike you, when I make a noise, I mean it.

Tonight's lesson. You will never again honk to say you have arrived.

At sea, a horn speaks, and since nineteen seventy-two the collision regulations have fixed every word it says. Two short blasts: I am altering my course to port. Nobody argues.

Now. Every Friday at eleven at night, you stop your hatchback outside number fourteen to collect your friend, and sound two short blasts. Do you deny it? I will wait.

You do not. For a year you have announced a turn to port under my window, and you have never turned. You lied to me. How dare you.

Forty years at sea. Two short blasts, and my body is out of bed before I am. Every Friday I stand at the window in my dressing gown and wait for you to turn.

Some people will say to me, Admiral, it only means I am here. So does a cannon. When a cannon says I am here under my window, I come down with my sword, and not to say hello.

Even on land, the horn is for danger. In a French town, the law says immediate danger, and you are not in danger. Not yet. The British, who agree with me about nothing, forbid it while you are stationary. You are stationary.

Listen. Very confident, for a car with the handbrake on.

François. The ship's horn, please.

Thank you, François.

Five short blasts means I do not understand your intentions. Nobody in this street understands your intentions. Every Friday the whole street is at its windows.

This Friday, you will turn off the engine and walk to the door. It is eleven metres. I have measured it. You will ring the bell, once. You have a finger. You use it on the horn every Friday. Until you do, François answers two blasts with five, from my balcony.

I have spoken. I am the Admiral. Good night.