I wonder where we'd all be without predictive text, the backseat driver of the tech world. It's the phone equivalent of the annoying relative who constantly butts in with unsolicited advice. It can rile to the point where you want to throw your phone off the Star Ferry. And at least you can yell back at a relative.

It messes with your head. And your words. In Hong Kong it can't fathom place names. Chai Wan comes up as "chairman", sometimes "Chihuahua wan". Pok Fu Lam becomes "poke dry lamb," Dai Long Wan "dig low down", which is exactly what developers tried to do at nearby Sai ("sigh") Wan.

Life is a shoe-in in Shoeing Wan, (Sheung Wan), according to my phone. And Taikoo Shing must have some new restaurants, as the phone thinks it's "Taco Ageing". Mei Foo morphs into "MRI fool". It's enough to make you want to fly off out of "Cheep Lap Kook".

My phone isn't very international. "Taswegian" (a person from Tasmania), becomes "taser foam"; "Brazilians" is "brazil loans"; "Tory" is "torture"; "ceilidh band", as in a Scottish dance ensemble, becomes "childbirth" - maybe because that's how excruciating it is for those who can't dance for tuppence ("yuppie"). "Organising", fed through fifty shades of technology, becomes "organ kissing".

"Car park" will pop up on your screen as "carpal" (as in carpal tunnel syndrome) and, let's face it, in Hong Kong, many car parks are more like tunnels. Get with the "prog rock", everybody.