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 Your join-the-dots social-media colouring book is out of date; I don't like you.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.