Yesterday was the kind of day that when it ended I was extremely grateful.
You'd think with several laptops and a computer hanging around the place that printing would be an assumed activity. Think again.
Hewlett Packard printers... well, I can honestly say I have always owned one. But, after yesterday, I departed from the brand, perhaps forever.
After numerous attempts to download drivers (why does a printer need 350MB of space?) on two laptops, I was unsuccessful in making the machine work. I then copied the document onto a memory stick, and tried to print on someone else's machine and printer (also HP). Unsuccessful.
In frustration, I braved rain and wind to drive to the local technology-television-digital radio-iron-mobile phone-hoover selling store.
When the sales agent came to ask me if he could help, I looked at him with a desperate eye. Pulling the memory stick out from my jeans' pocket, I waved it at him and said: "I need to print a letter to the tax office, or I'm in danger of tax evasion." He must have thought he had won the lottery.
That was it. I had all the documents for the tax man ready. All I needed to do was print a document - a letter of explanation, one that itemized my request, explained the errors, included the appropriate identification information, was suitably contrite, and, most importantly, would display an original signature on the bottom of the letter.
Yes, yes, yes, I suppose I could have hand written it- and, in fact, several attempts had been made, by me, as well as someone else to carefully recreate the letter by hand. After repeated mistakes (dictation is just not what it used to be), the printing option became the only option.
The lucky sales man led me to the Hewlett Packard models. I said, "I'd much rather try something different this time." So, £110 pounds later, I am the owner of printer cartridges, a 3 year warranty, and an Epson printer/scanner/photocopier. Why does no printer come with the cable? And why do printer cartridges cost almost as much as the printer? Rhetorical questions, but I needed to ask them if only just to vent!
The drive home was quicker than the set up. After an hour of fiddling about with plastic bits, cartridges and software, I ran out of time before having to pick up daughter at station- so anti-climatic.
Another forty-five minutes later, with daughter and a take-away in hand, I arrived back at my desk, ready to try once more to cross the finish line of the printing expedition. Software loaded - check. Cables connected - check. Now where to load the paper in this new model? Paper finally loaded - check. Locate document. Locate printer. Print.
I never thought the click and swoosh of a printer could be so satisfying. It was a bottle of water on a hot beach. An RAC man in the rain. Heaven.
And so here on the desk my letter sits, printed on cream paper, both pages signed, all ready to be posted to the expectant tax man.
Now off to the post office.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
What happened after eight on Halloween
The other day, when my very checked-in daughter realized how low I was feeling about my imperfect work-life-balance, she reminded me about the time I had sent her a piñata at school. She recalled that it was the ‘coolest’ present anyone in the house had ever received. She and her friends didn't even want to break it open, as it would spoil it. Instead they found the hole I had used to stuff the papier-mâché gourde, emptying it one treat at a time. That Halloween in Oz, they sat around the house telling each other ghost stories while eating the goodies, preserving the pumpkin for the next year– so they could start a new tradition. I was apparently the best Mum.
Listening to the story made me feel a little more domestically aware, less like someone who had just stumbled into her kids' lives with a to-do list as long as her arm and a calendar that was at least a week out of date, most of the time. I started to feel a bit better about the last two weeks of runaway train-wreck work days, until Saturday night when there was a wee knock at the door.
Thinking it was the neighbour arriving earlier than expected, I opened the door, looking out for someone at least my height, but was surprised to find no one there. My eyes were drawn down to the flickering beam of a torch that was slicing its way through the blackness like a lightsaber in a bouncy castle. The source of this unexpected, one-eyed headlight was being pursued by a shivering tiger, or bear, or mouse, or something brown looking anyway.
"Trick or Treat."
The words fell onto the mat in front of me: they were uttered in some strange accent that sounded very unlike an English mouse. Those words were accompanied by three pairs of eyes, all staring up at me hopefully. I was thinking, as I bent over to peer into the gaping mouths of the nearly empty, orange plastic bags being shaken in front of me, "Oh my stars."
What about Guy Fawkes Night? Who were these people? I hadn't really considered Halloween here. I knew there was a primary school in this village, but, most of the people I’d interacted with were what I classified as the Village Elders. Alas, there were children here. They were here in front of me dressed as some unknown species, waiting to be disappointed.
In a panic, my brain tripped forward to the next thought; did I have anything in the house that I could remotely pass off as a Halloween treat? The pressure was mounting. I found my way into the kitchen where I frantically attempted to find something, anything that might resemble a sweetie- a wrapped piece of gum, a chocolate, a dog bone. I was running out of time, anything would do. No doubt, the mother of three children in a very small village might not appreciate me handing out olives, peppered crackers, a can of anchovies, a pack of cigarettes or a nip bottle of Smirnoff leftover from some plane trip- unless she had a bag too.
About that time, my son called out something from the sitting room. He was busy, holding down the dog, while trying to watch the Simpsons. He was obviously not in touch with the feeling of failure that was quickly washing over me. It crystallized the moment I understood what he said: "Give them a tomato, or an orange, or something."
Great advice, I just couldn't see them ripping open their oranges in a few hours. I turned and desperately muttered a prayer to the kitchen goddess of hope. I opened the cupboard door, nothing. Feeling very Mother Hubbard like, I pulled open a deep drawer. It was heaving with useless debris - a hammer, a screwdriver, about seven miles worth of string, some matches, a couple of stray tea-light candles, a post-it-note pad. There had to be something in there. I swirled my hand deeper into the mess, and like a lucky dip score, managed to pull out several Twix bars leftover from some forgotten time. Who cared how long they'd been there. These kids would throw the booty into the bag. You couldn't die from old chocolate, right?
So I dragged out a handful of the fossilized bars, adding sweetly, "Take as many as you like." One child, whose face was not obscured by a plastic mask, looked at me wide-eyed and exclaimed "Really?" I was suddenly elevated to hero status. Excellent, I was home free.
I attempted to close the door. But like a slow motion mother's nightmare, I looked up the path to see one, two, three speckled light trails. Bollocks, that couldn't be more of them. But it was more of them. Looking pathetically at my then empty hands, I returned to the cupboard-under-the-stairs, pushed past the rice, the pasta until my fingers found a box. I pulled it out, hoping it wasn't just tea bags. It was an ancient box of dinner mints - After Eights. Yippee. I went to the door, hoping the new lot of ferrets and rats didn't dislike this kind of chocolate as much as I did.
March on Guy Fawkes!
Listening to the story made me feel a little more domestically aware, less like someone who had just stumbled into her kids' lives with a to-do list as long as her arm and a calendar that was at least a week out of date, most of the time. I started to feel a bit better about the last two weeks of runaway train-wreck work days, until Saturday night when there was a wee knock at the door.
Thinking it was the neighbour arriving earlier than expected, I opened the door, looking out for someone at least my height, but was surprised to find no one there. My eyes were drawn down to the flickering beam of a torch that was slicing its way through the blackness like a lightsaber in a bouncy castle. The source of this unexpected, one-eyed headlight was being pursued by a shivering tiger, or bear, or mouse, or something brown looking anyway.
"Trick or Treat."
The words fell onto the mat in front of me: they were uttered in some strange accent that sounded very unlike an English mouse. Those words were accompanied by three pairs of eyes, all staring up at me hopefully. I was thinking, as I bent over to peer into the gaping mouths of the nearly empty, orange plastic bags being shaken in front of me, "Oh my stars."
What about Guy Fawkes Night? Who were these people? I hadn't really considered Halloween here. I knew there was a primary school in this village, but, most of the people I’d interacted with were what I classified as the Village Elders. Alas, there were children here. They were here in front of me dressed as some unknown species, waiting to be disappointed.
In a panic, my brain tripped forward to the next thought; did I have anything in the house that I could remotely pass off as a Halloween treat? The pressure was mounting. I found my way into the kitchen where I frantically attempted to find something, anything that might resemble a sweetie- a wrapped piece of gum, a chocolate, a dog bone. I was running out of time, anything would do. No doubt, the mother of three children in a very small village might not appreciate me handing out olives, peppered crackers, a can of anchovies, a pack of cigarettes or a nip bottle of Smirnoff leftover from some plane trip- unless she had a bag too.
About that time, my son called out something from the sitting room. He was busy, holding down the dog, while trying to watch the Simpsons. He was obviously not in touch with the feeling of failure that was quickly washing over me. It crystallized the moment I understood what he said: "Give them a tomato, or an orange, or something."
Great advice, I just couldn't see them ripping open their oranges in a few hours. I turned and desperately muttered a prayer to the kitchen goddess of hope. I opened the cupboard door, nothing. Feeling very Mother Hubbard like, I pulled open a deep drawer. It was heaving with useless debris - a hammer, a screwdriver, about seven miles worth of string, some matches, a couple of stray tea-light candles, a post-it-note pad. There had to be something in there. I swirled my hand deeper into the mess, and like a lucky dip score, managed to pull out several Twix bars leftover from some forgotten time. Who cared how long they'd been there. These kids would throw the booty into the bag. You couldn't die from old chocolate, right?
So I dragged out a handful of the fossilized bars, adding sweetly, "Take as many as you like." One child, whose face was not obscured by a plastic mask, looked at me wide-eyed and exclaimed "Really?" I was suddenly elevated to hero status. Excellent, I was home free.
I attempted to close the door. But like a slow motion mother's nightmare, I looked up the path to see one, two, three speckled light trails. Bollocks, that couldn't be more of them. But it was more of them. Looking pathetically at my then empty hands, I returned to the cupboard-under-the-stairs, pushed past the rice, the pasta until my fingers found a box. I pulled it out, hoping it wasn't just tea bags. It was an ancient box of dinner mints - After Eights. Yippee. I went to the door, hoping the new lot of ferrets and rats didn't dislike this kind of chocolate as much as I did.
March on Guy Fawkes!
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