Last weekend my grandson “taught” me to use ChatGPT.

'It'll help you write emails,' he promised.

I spent Sunday feeding it deliberately absurd requests instead.

'Write a complaint to British Gas in the style of Jane Austen.'

'Explain quantum computing using only cake metaphors.'

'Draft a letter to my neighbour about his overgrown hedge, but make it sound like the opening of Moby Dick.'

My grandson was baffled. 'That's not what it's for!'

But here's what he missed: I'm not using AI to be more efficient.

I'm using it as a creative sparring partner.

At 67, I've outgrown productivity as life's primary metric. I'm interested in playfulness.

Curiosity.

The joy of seeing what happens when you color outside the lines.

Perhaps that's the advantage of age—we're finally free to use tools not as they were intended, but as we damn well please.