After the computer difficulties of the previous book deadline (see posting below) some kind of mechanical failure was always on my mind for this one. But fearing something and it coming to pass are not usually the same thing. Indeed, many people (myself included) suffer from an irrational delusion that if they worry about something it’s less likely to happen, because the worst things that happen are hideous shocks that come out of nowhere.
Anyway, the point is that it did happen. Again. And this time the culprit was not the computer, but its right-hand man, its consigliere – the printer.
Now, my HP Deskjet D2360 is old. I don’t want to offend the device by giving its precise coordinates, but let’s just say that Princess Margaret was alive and (reasonably) well when it first came to nestle upon my desk. A neighbour the other day came round to ask if he could copy a document. I said no. He said – ‘But you have a printer – surely that can scan things?’ I showed him the HP Deskjet D2360 and he nodded solemnly and left.
The thing has long since dispensed with frills such as colour printing, but has remained a steadfast worker in the only task it is called to do – churn out Times New Roman font size 12 pages of Spike books for my wife to read (and vastly improve).
As the countdown towards finishing Spike Book 5 began, the HP’s workload increased. On the last weekend (the deadline was Sunday 31st Jan, a bit of a nasty anyway with tax returns, so somehow appropriate), HP began to protest vociferously. The paper-jamming (always a feature, but one forgives such idiosyncrasies in a long-term work relationship) increased, and it soon became clear that great wads of paper in the tray weren’t going to hack it anymore. Gradually, the amount the printer would accept became less and less, until, on the Saturday afternoon, it would take no more than five sheets in its tray without jamming. This was at a point when I was very keen to deliver the book in toto to my wife, so the fact that I was spending most of the time cursing at the printer as its yellow light winked and I dragged stuck sheets from its maws was adding to the stress.
As darkness fell on the Saturday, I decided to try something new. I reduced the paper input to just three sheets, and the HP suddenly grappled hold of them and printed them off with alacrity. ‘It’s coming three pages at a time,’ I yelled downstairs to my wife, who was drumming her fingers on the kitchen table.
And then began a rather beautiful synthesis. Machine and two humans in total harmony. I would check through three pages of the book, then print them off. Then I would run them downstairs to my wife, pick up the three pages she’d just read and annotated, and carry them back up to the study and begin the process again. By midnight we’d worked through the whole book.
As an afterthought on Sunday, I printed out a particularly troublesome chapter from the middle of the book, and on the last page, the typeface began to blur. The ink cartridge was spent. I nodded at HP in understanding, then reached over and turned him off.
The book went in fine, and I haven’t turned HP on since. We’ll see how he emerges from his rest. The three-sheet discipline may have something about it. The team remains intact…
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