Wing Dings

 

Computers continue to blight my life.

At work I have been unable to get onto my computer as one of the teaching assistants has always been there sitting like a fat toad on the chair every day, grey haired and grim with her rounded back turned firmly against me.

I’ve resources I need to print out and prepare; and I also need time to remind myself of what I’ve planned to do that day. I’m fluttering behind her like a tired battered white butterfly.

“Have you much more to do,” I enquire tentatively.

“I’ve loads to do. I’ve only just started,” she informs me starkly, without turning around, her body looking even heavier on the seat.

When she finally leaves she tells me that the inks have run out. She leaves the printer’s ink compartment open as she walks off.

Of course there is no one in the office.

Later, I have to fill in an order form, and then stand and wait like a penitent nun for the Head teacher to unlock the cupboard, find the correct cartridge and give it to me as if it’s the Holy Grail. By this time the children are already streaming into the school.

It’s a struggle to fit the cartridge. I finally manage it, but by now there is no time to do what I wanted to do.

In the evenings my ‘Learning Support Assistant’ lays claim to the computer, and I have to wait until 4:30 before I can get near it. By that time I’m so tired I can barely remember why I ever wanted to use it in the first place.

The following day, I discover there is no one sitting in front of my computer. Delighted I sit down in front of it and press the buttons.

The sounds are all wrong. There is no welcoming beep.

No signal imput.

“Your computer doesn’t work,’ Toad lady says in passing. After I’ve spent an age checking wires, plugs and sockets.

Days later ‘the man’ comes to fix it. He places a brand new mother board inside the machine.

I watch from a distance as it boots up and works perfectly.

The following day the child from Zimbabwe, who does not speak any English and is profoundly autistic, sits in from of my computer. His only sound is like a loud gurgle from a dying man, “Ahhhherrrrrrrrr,” he moans.

Just before I can get him onto a programme he likes I’m distracted by something else.

When I next glance in his direction the computer screen shows the background scene but no menus. The boy’s fingers have been busy.

“Ahhhherrrrrrrrr,” he moans. He can not tell me what he’s done. I try different things. “Ahhhherrrrrrrrr,” he moans again. Nothing works.

I can’t even log out properly. I switch the computer off at the wall knowing that going out and coming back in again usually solves most problems.

Later I switch the computer back on. It makes all the right sounds as it boots up. To my surprise I notice that the log in box is now written in wing dings.

Undeterred I log in.

The screen view changes to the familiar background scene, but one devoid of icons and menus.

I’ve been locked out.

“Ahhhherrrrrrrrr,” moans the child from Zimbabwe.

“Ahhhherrrrrrrrr,” I moan in unison.