I bought a printer a while back. Maybe six months. Cheaper than the old wreck, and lighter. Installed it, printed with it, cleared the first printer jam, cleaned the print heads, cleared the second printer jam, told it my first language was English (UK), printed some more, cancelled a pop-up offering an upgrade, then another one telling me the upgrade wasn't complete and was I sure I wanted to cancel, then another one asking whether I was sure I wanted to exit. Reminded it that my first language was English (UK). Printed some more.
That's been the daily routine ever since. More paper jams than the old printer, but nothing outside my tolerance for machine incompetence. Fine for occasional letters and assorted print-outs. But after a while, the daily three pop-ups began to get me down. They'd come about mid-morning, just as I was getting into the swing of whatever I was writing. Did I want an upgrade? Do you want to exit before it's finished? Are you sure you want to exit?
Yesterday, I took the upgrade, and sure enough, it took ages. At the end of the process, it asked me if I wanted to start a relationship. Share my secrets, get intimate, spend some time together in printer heaven. The company has a cloud for people like me. By that point, though, it had been stalking me for so long that I just wanted to get somewhere else. Cancel. Yes, I'm sure I want to cancel. Yes, I'm sure I want to exit. Go away. Your join-the-dots social-media colouring book is out of date; I don't like you.
This morning - guess what? There's a further upgrade. No, no and no.
I don't mind the paper jams. It's a machine, after all. I don't mind cleaning the print heads. Ditto. I know that the day will never come when I can just press the "print" button and it will print. Ha ha; what an idea. But I hate the interruptions. It's a piece of basic kit, not a lifestyle. I want to produce rectangles of paper with ink on them. If I want to make a high-concept movie, or populate an art exhibition with my family snapshots, I won't do it with a cheap printer.
I went to a warehouse and spent fifty quid on a cheap printer. It's not really the basis for a long-term relationship.
And anyway, I'm already shacked up with the toaster.
That's been the daily routine ever since. More paper jams than the old printer, but nothing outside my tolerance for machine incompetence. Fine for occasional letters and assorted print-outs. But after a while, the daily three pop-ups began to get me down. They'd come about mid-morning, just as I was getting into the swing of whatever I was writing. Did I want an upgrade? Do you want to exit before it's finished? Are you sure you want to exit?
Yesterday, I took the upgrade, and sure enough, it took ages. At the end of the process, it asked me if I wanted to start a relationship. Share my secrets, get intimate, spend some time together in printer heaven. The company has a cloud for people like me. By that point, though, it had been stalking me for so long that I just wanted to get somewhere else. Cancel. Yes, I'm sure I want to cancel. Yes, I'm sure I want to exit. Go away. Your join-the-dots social-media colouring book is out of date; I don't like you.
This morning - guess what? There's a further upgrade. No, no and no.
I don't mind the paper jams. It's a machine, after all. I don't mind cleaning the print heads. Ditto. I know that the day will never come when I can just press the "print" button and it will print. Ha ha; what an idea. But I hate the interruptions. It's a piece of basic kit, not a lifestyle. I want to produce rectangles of paper with ink on them. If I want to make a high-concept movie, or populate an art exhibition with my family snapshots, I won't do it with a cheap printer.
I went to a warehouse and spent fifty quid on a cheap printer. It's not really the basis for a long-term relationship.
And anyway, I'm already shacked up with the toaster.