Mischievous Night

 

Something occasionally goes awry with my computer. The colours become different and strange. It’s as if they have a brittle metallic hue with a sort of dotty appearance. Usually, whenever that occurs I shut down and restart the computer: that well honed method that usually solves most computer glitches.

This time though I didn’t want to do that.

I’d been working all day creating a lesson plan. I’d started in the morning, developing ideas and then finding, modifying and creating resources to support them. I had a lot of material I needed to print off, but a lot more still to do.

I had opened web sites and I didn’t want to close them down. I also had another problem: the printer.

Once upon a time, there were the halcyon days when the computer and printer used to communicate with each other over the wireless network; but such days are long gone. Some sibling rivalry between the too means that they no longer talked to each other.

To print I would need to carry my computer downstairs, plug it in to the power, and connect it to the printer. It seemed the better option, despite the iffiness of the colours on the screen, to continue with what I was doing before the need to carry the computer downstairs.

I was congratulating myself on the success of this plan as I finally finished working. It was late but I had got things sorted out, at least for the first lesson. The websites I’d been using could now be closed. Extra unneeded documents could be saved and then closed down; and I was left with six precious documents that I needed to print.

All I had to do now was to take the computer downstairs, connect it to the printer and print: simple.

A five minute job.

Probably less.

Except, I had forgotten that I was dealing with a computer.

Computers have a six sense. Somewhere hidden amongst their silicon circuitry is a dubious algorithm that can detect the importance of certain documents and an associated human’s need to hold such documents in their hands. Computers are hard-wired to respond to such neediness; and will do everything within their power to thwart such urgent desires.

A computer is like a wayward child.

A testing wayward child.

A computer is like a child who does something utterly dreadful, who then looks at you with a blank face, totally oblivious of the surrounding destruction, and asks, ‘Do you still love me?’

You look at them and despair.

‘I know I broke the Ming vase,’ their eyes say, ‘that I used permanent black maker on your yellow silk dress,’ their eyes plead, ’that I took the innards out of the television just before you sat down to watch your favourite programme,’ they sigh, ‘but do you still love me?’

Or in computer speak this conversation is summed up with a simple blank face. The face that has reduced many a computer user to tears: The Blue Screen of Death.

That’s what I’m now looking at.

‘Do you still love me?’

Except this isn’t the tradition Blue Screen of Death. It’s a more upmarket stylish Blue Screen of Death with black stripes.

Nothing I touch or do can return the screen to life.

All the Toshiba computers we’ve ever had all seem to have very poor battery back up. I can only use my ‘laptop’ if it is connected to the mains power. The Teenager can only use his ‘laptop’ if the battery is removed completely. I dare not run my computer on battery power as I know I will lose any Internet connection in less than five minutes.

I re-plug the power cable.

Nothing.

I do an emergency shut down, take the wayward computer downstairs, hook up the cables and wait.

I know a computer tantrum when I see one, and I know that the best plan is to walk away and leave it for a while.

I’ve learnt this after long painful experience.

I know that the best solution is a cup of tea.

With Zen like composure I later return, switch the computer back on, and then walk away again. I don’t want to see that blank blue face again if it’s still there.

From where I’m standing in the distance the computer is calling me. It’s making conciliatory chirping sounds. I go to look, there is a new screen. It tells me Windows didn’t shut down properly, what do I want to do?

It’s nice to be given an option. I go for the full re-launch, and walk away again.

Later, I find my precious files that luckily I’d saved before the crash. I retrieve them and send them one by one to the printer.

The printer has all the time been watching this little drama and decides on some copycat behaviour, to gain some attention of its own. So as each piece of paper exits its mouth it manages a swift intake of breath and manages to whip the paper back inside again chomping it for good measure.

It’s never done that before.

‘Paper jam,’ it yells at me, flashing ominous orange lights. ‘Paper jam!’

Calmly, I extricate the paper and begin again.

This time I sit by the printer to prevent the next sheet from being gulped back inside.

Amazingly, just over an hour later, I have managed to coax the computer and printer into giving me the precious documents that I need.

Success.

I don’t want to think that it should have taken less then five minutes. That I now have more grey hairs and that a few teeth have nearly been ground to dust.

I look at the clock.

It’s midnight.

But at least mischievous night is over.

 

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