A Man and His Printer Cartridge

I can handle most computer-orientated malfunctions. A weak wireless signal - well, move the thing closer. A humming sub-woofer - give it a kick. A leaky ink cartridge - the trick here is to get amongst it, and not to mind getting your hands dirty. Show 'em who's boss! And then be sure to throw your shirt into the washing machine and whack it up to 90 degrees. Just don't expect to be able to fasten your top button afterwards - I heard somewhere that this isn't so cool anyway.

A similar good intention came back to haunt me however; and I learned a little something about playing the good Samaritan when it concerns an asthmatic ink-jet printer from 1994.

Our relationship was pretty average - for a man and a printer. I remember our first meeting, unwrapping her from her corrugated box, relinquishing her from perpetual darkness and giving her the gift of being able to fulfil her purpose. Stripping her of that polystyrene comfort she had grown accustomed to and teaching her to obey - in an age when the words 'printer' and 'urgency' were never heard in the same sentence.

In those days of course, I rarely needed to print multiple copies of lengthy flowery drivel and so she served me just fine. It also took me a good few years to realise what a noisy beast she was, and I often wonder if she developed an uncontrollable loudness as she aged. I remember visitors coming over. 'I'll just print you out that thing,' I'd say, and leave them in the kitchen. I'd come back once proceedings were underway and they'd ask, 'Have you got a Commodore 64 down there? Are you loading Pac-Man? Is that Hal dying?'

Well, she survived the millennium bug - she could probably survive the apocalypse to be honest. Hence why I never got rid of her, as such, and decided to hand her down to my mother-in-law when she suddenly jumped onto the PC band-wagon at the ripe old age of 75.

'It's a little bit faint,' she told me down the phone. 'I'll get you some more ink,' I responded - and turned up the following morning during Bridge. 'Don't mind me girls,' and they followed me in just as I realised that I probably hadn't changed the ink cartridge for approximately ten years. 'He knows what he's doing,' my mother-in-law assured the rest of them - as if I was embarking on some forbidden journey to the dark side of humiliation.

Needless to say, me and the ink-jet wrestled, argued, huffed and puffed. 'There's no need to shout, dear,' one of the spectators said. 'I'M NOT SHOUTING!' I replied casually and in complete control. 'It's just being stubb-ORN!' And slowly they filed out - only to be interrupted later by my dishevelled ink-covered self politely asking for a cloth.

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