It was precisely 15.15 on a Monday afternoon. Most office workers wouldn’t be going home yet, but these two were. They were dressed like people who had already met their quotas. They could have been brothers.
People tend not to pay attention to how much conversations bounce around in tight spaces like the tram we had all just sat down in.
After massaging the nicotine pack into his lower lip, the more rugged one blurted out with immense pride: “I wrote the best damn report ever in my life today.” His colleague asked him about it. I heard something about writing and so my antenna went up.
The rugged one went on to say that he simply summoned ChatGPT to do it. When pressed further what ChatGPT had written on his behalf, the rugged one couldn’t recall, but he was certain that it was the best report ever. On that there was no negotiating.
The colleague seated across from him wore his discomfort on his face. He pushed back on it a bit. To which the rugged one said gleefully: “If you can’t beat them, join them!”