Back in the seventies, when I was but a teen, I recall watching an episode of Tomorrow’s World concerned with ‘The Paperless Office’. It predicted, in confident tones, a day when computers would be so much a part of our lives that we would no longer have the need for printed documents. Like an episode of Space 1999 it showed healthy, modern people using personal computers, faxes and mobile phones whilst inhabiting a white sanitised world.
It all seemed a world away from the forest killing, ozone depleting period that I grew up in; if they had added a jetpack and a Sunday dinner in the form of a pill it would have seemed like the complete sci-fi deal.
Here I sit three decades later, my desk full of paper and my most used computer function the print button, wondering what happened to the promised paperless world. In theory it could be a reality today but I fear that the TW producers forgot to consider one ingredient when they made their prediction. Namely: the human inability to truly trust anything.
Think about it. I receive an email from a dear friend in the USA. He tells me all about their latest offspring and I receive this news merely seconds after his fingers have danced over the keyboard. I now have two choices, I either call my wife to come from the lounge and get her to read the missal on the screen, thereby saving a twig in a rain forest south of the equator, or I print it out and let her read the hard copy. I choose to print so that it frees up the screen to show how much I can buy several reams of A4 paper for on-line.
Similarly at work I have a need to print whatever I see on the screen just to double check what it looks like when I hold it in my hands. Perhaps that is part of the problem; we have grown so used to the idea that we use our eyes AND our hands in the reading process that to merely sit and look at a screen feels like second best.
I am sure, however, that there is a deeper reason for my failure to resist the print option. I have become so accustomed to my computer crashing that I am compelled to make a hard copy and keep it in a file in my desk, just in case. I wonder how many acres of vegetation have been lost due to our 'just in case' moments. The ‘techy’ guys and gals in the depth our building don’t offer any comfort. They are all top quality people but their confidence in using computer jargon to deflect awkward questions dissolves into apoplexy whenever they are faced with a printer fault.
They seem to adopt the adage 'if in doubt, give it a clout' like the rest of us when reading error messages on the full colour, 3 function machine. My logic is simple; if they are not believers, then neither am I. I am therefore left to print every document just in case.
When I arrive at the printer I am greeted by a queue of weary office travellers who have all come in search of the comfort of hard copy documentation. Some gaze at the printer with once hopeful eyes. Others press buttons and peer at the display screen hoping that their job is the next to be fulfilled. Some, however, who printed but then got distracted before they could retrieve their work, search through that pile of paperwork that sits next to every machine in the land. You presume that at some point these were all wanted by someone but now they sit like puppies in a dog shelter waiting for someone to consider them as important.
With the advances in technology the promise of a paperless office is now back in vogue. Infrared, Bluetooth and wireless technology mean that our laptops, PC’s, mobile phones and palm tops can all communicate with each other without any help from us mere humans. I may well continue having this urge to print but perhaps the future is more likely to be a ‘peopleless office’.
Paperless Office
The Age Around My Eyes
I am at the age when hair production has moved from the top of my head to other regions. As I kid I used to laugh at ‘old’ people who had toothbrush heads growing out of their nose and ears. Now that I have reinterpreted what ‘old’ is, I am no longer in the mood for laughing.
I was in a large chemist a few days ago when I found myself spending far too long looking at all the ‘products’ available for men.
“Why don’t you get some moisturising cream” suggested the wife of my youth as she past the isle, smelling of newly sprayed perfume.
“Moisturising cream, Pa!” I said, as I headed for the safety of the batteries and other electrical items. “Most men, use it these days” offered the heavily made up sales assistant joining in with our debate.
Most men! It annoys me when someone tries to get you to do something because ‘a lot of other people do it’. I am an individual and I don’t need to follow everyone else. I have never used moisturising cream. I am male. I am northern.
“You have chosen a good brand!” said the girl at the till as I gave her £6.99 for a bottle that claims to deal with climatic aggression. Soft skin and good weather – can’t be bad.
I may be male and I may be northern but I happened to have looked a mirror above the sunglasses and noticed the age around my eyes. After that my protestations where useless signalling a complete change in my approach to life.
It was always said of the footballer Rodney Marsh that, while other players went to away matches with several cases of clothing, he would go with just a toothbrush in his top pocket. I like that. I want to be that kind of guy. I didn't even carry a wallet until a few years ago needing only a few screwed up- fivers in the small pocket of my jeans and a credit card for emergencies. In a similar way I have always prided my self on travelling light. I can get up and go within a few minutes of walking out of the shower.
But now at both ends of the day this new-born metrosexual applies his product and hopes to stop the reduction in my skins elasticity. I also have to pluck and snip my way through a newly grown forest and take a variety of potions forced on me by a kind but misguided doctor.
Oh for youth! Whilst my daughters skip their way through every exciting adventure that their season brings them, my wife and I try to have conversations to the accompaniment of our clicking joints. They race to be first on the computer and play games on the trampoline, whilst we celebrate the miracle that is 'horizontal'.
Not too long ago we had a get-together for some of our ‘old’ friends. We tried to encourage our daughters to stay in for the evening and meet our visitors. All of the girls looked horrified at the suggestion and, amidst the youthful groans and sighs, our third daughter spoke up for the group when she said 'please don't make me stay in and speak to old people'.
They formed an escape committee and left for the evening whilst we settled down with our guests to compare notes on hairlines, operations and food allergies. (Three of us could not eat pastry past eight o’clock and four people could no longer digest cucumber in just case you were wondering).
After they left we were faced with a choice between watching a late film or going to bed with a cup of tea and a book. I woke up half way through the film having dreamt that I had already gone to bed. So, after clicking my way up the stairs and applying my time reversing potions I lay down to dream that Rodney Marsh had written to say he was disappointed in my choice of moisturiser.
I woke the next morning to the good news that the age around my eyes, although still there, is much softer than it once was.
The Art of Conversation
My wife is one of those precious people who can talk to anyone. It is a gift that helps her in her role as a Practice Nurse at a busy surgery. I am aware that I also have a propensity to be talkative but there is a notable difference in our styles of conversation.
The difference to which I speak can be characterised by describing what happens when one of us returns from an evening out. It goes something like this:
The Scene: I am horizontal on the sofa surrounded by empty crisp and chocolate packets engrossed in a crucial game on 'Match of the Day'. My wife returns from her jaunt with a spring in her step and the need to 'share'.
I dutifully put to her the key question that I have been trained to ask, over years of married bliss. 'How did it go?' This four-word question unleashes a several thousand-word response during which I am treated to a minute by minute replay of all that has happened. Missing the goals and the post match discussion, with the sound now muted, I try to take it all in and avoid glazing over. Who said what to whom. Who was there. What they wore. No detail is spared. To be honest I might as well recorded the football and gone out with her.
My wife is an extremely interesting person but listening to a replay of an event that I was neither invited to, nor wanted to be present at, is the marriage equivalent of watching a friend’s home movies.
Now compare this to what happens when I return home from an evening out.
My bride is sat watching a programme about dysfunctional teenagers from the Northeast visiting a boot camp in the USA. The whole room is tidy except for a half-full cup of copy and an apple core neatly placed on the lounge table.
'How did it go?' answer 'Great!'
'Who was there?' answer 'Most people'
'What did you do?' answer 'The usual'
As far as I am concerned that just about sums up the evening but my wife is not satisfied with such a minimalist exchange. She wants it all and she wants it now, so I try to fill in the gaps by describing who wore what. (Why is that important?)
My daughters have grown to share their mother's appreciation of conversation, so much so that they can several conversations on the go at the same time.
Mealtime in the Molineaux house is an event in itself and represents the family’s love of conversation. In fact it is more than an event; it is a whole soap opera. On normal days it tends to be the four girls, my wife and me all congregated around the pine table in the kitchen. If this were a scene from the Waltons or Little House on the Prairie then the food would be passed around with good grace and manners. Conversation would follow in which every child spoke about the highlights of their day. And the parents would look on with justifiable, yet sugary, pride.
Not so with us! No sooner has the food landed than six pairs of arms matrix across the table in search of consumables. This is followed by fourteen conversations at once. I have to confess here that only the girls in my house can manage multi-talk. The best that I can do is to nod in the right places and try not to make eye contact with any one person.
I still recall the joy of welcoming our future son-in-law to one of these meal times. He sat wide-eyed listening to the girls seamlessly moving form one subject to another whilst I continued to nod my agreement. He was quiet literally speechless and even if he did have something to say there were no moments of silence available to him.
So what shall we conclude from this example of communicative differences? My wife and I have tried over the years to make allowances for our peccadilloes. She tries not to ask me questions when football is on and I try to remember to tell her what all the men wore on my night out.
