Mrs Malarkey

Tag: writing

  • Yellow printer ink

    Yellow printer ink

    I’m printing a letter, not a flippin sunflower

    The other day, the printer ran out of yellow, which I wouldn’t have thought mattered very much because I was trying to print a letter. Just black writing on white paper. I wasn’t planning to include a sunflower.

    Before you all say it, yes, I selected “Black and white” on the printer option things. Apparently, yellow still needed to be there for some reason.

    I took the cartridge out and put it back in, because that occasionally works with things. There was some encouraging whirring, then the same message asking me to replace it. I’m sure there’s probably a perfectly sound technical explanation, but standing in the spare room discussing colours with a printer, I couldn’t think of one. The other option running through my head was to launch said printer out of the window, but that really wouldn’t solve much.

    Eventually I gave in and ordered a replacement, checking the number several times because all the cartridges look much the same and I didn’t want to spend twenty quid on the wrong little plastic box. Unfortunately, I needed to post the letter that day, so I emailed it to my ever so patient friend and drove three miles to collect it from her house. I remembered an envelope so I could post it on the way home, which felt quite organised under the circumstances. Hurrah! Mission accomplished, letter in post.

    Two days later, the yellow cartridge arrived. I popped it in and the printer promptly produced several copies of the letter. Presumably it had remembered every time I’d pressed “Print” and was now keen to show willing.

    All beautifully printed in black, with not a trace of yellow anywhere.

    Argh! Printers.

  • My Little Book of Passwords

    By Mrs Malarkey

    I have a little book of passwords. An actual book, made of paper, with all my passwords written in it in biro.

    In an age when we’re constantly being warned about cyber security, identity theft and the dangers of writing passwords down, I have entrusted practically my entire existence to a small notebook that lives amongst the cookbooks in the kitchen.

    It’s a highly sophisticated security arrangement. Nobody would think to look for my online banking details between Mary Berry, Jamie Oliver and a tattered old copy of Delia Smith Christmas. To be fair to them, they’re doing a grand job guarding my passwords.

    The book started off innocently enough. A few passwords for things I used regularly. Online banking, emails, that sort of thing. Then along came the children’s school dinner payment portal, the electricity supplier, the insurance company, the supermarket, the dentist and approximately forty-seven other organisations, all of whom insist I create an account before they’ll allow me to do anything.

    Every single one has different password requirements. One wants eight characters. Another wants twelve. One insists on a capital letter, a number and a special character. Another won’t accept the special character I’ve chosen, presumably because an exclamation mark is considered a threat to national security.

    Then there’s the business of changing them. So I more often than not find myself pressing the ‘forgot password’ button. Apparently, I can’t use a password I’ve used before. I can’t use anything remotely memorable, and I certainly can’t use the same password for two different things.

    So I invent something completely ridiculous, immediately forget it, and rather embarrasingly have to go through the whole ‘Forgotten your password?’ procedure again.

    Occasionally I’m asked to confirm my identity by answering a security question I apparently set up in 2014. What was the name of my first pet? Was it the cat? The goldfish? Did I use its proper name or the ridiculous nickname we called it?

    At this point I generally give up and go to make a cup of tea and reach for the custard creams.

    Which brings me back nicely to my little book. It’s not particularly attractive. The pages are covered in crossings-out, arrows and occasional question marks where I’m no longer entirely sure whether a password is current or one of the previous six.

    Some entries have ‘NEW’ written beside them, although quite what I considered new in 2019 is anybody’s guess. And don’t even get me started on the post it notes written in some sort of weird code that I thought was very clever at the time.

    Of course, I realise there are clever password managers that will remember everything for me. I’ve looked into them. They require setting up an account, installing something and creating a master password. If I’m honest I don’t entirely trust them, all that techy stuff and clever hacker people might hack my password manager thingy

    One single password upon which all the other passwords depend. Crumbs. I know I’ll forget that one too and then where will I be.

    I stick to my little book thanks. It’s in the safe hands of Delia, Mary and Jamie.

    Kitchen counter with “TOP SECRET BOOK OF PASSWORDS” beside cookbooks and a mug
    Of course this is AI

  • When you need scissors to open your scissors

    I bought some scissors the other day because ours had disappeared. I’d looked in the drawer where we keep them, asked whether anybody had seen them and received the usual assurances that nobody had touched them. Wherever they’d gone, they’d apparently travelled independently. Maybe it was the Sock Monster trying to diversify.

    Anyway, I bought another pair. They looked sturdy, had comfortable handles and seemed perfectly suitable for the fairly modest cutting requirements of our household. Unfortunately, getting them out of the packet turned out to require the equipment I’d specifically gone shopping for.

    You’ll know the packaging I mean. Clear plastic, sealed all the way round, with no obvious way in. I think it’s called blister pack but not 100% sure on that. ANyway, I turned it over several times, looking for a tab or some instructions, but all I could find was a picture showing how nicely the scissors would fit in my hand once I’d been allowed to have them.

    I tried pulling the top apart, then bent a corner until it went white. Getting a fingernail underneath achieved very little beyond hurting my finger and a sharp jab of pesky plastic going up under my fingernail causing me to swear quite a bit. So I stood there for a moment looking at the scissors through the plastic and cursing the people who thought blister pack was the perfect scissor packaging solution.

    I do wonder whether anyone tries opening these things before they send them off to the shops. Presumably the person packing them has scissors readily available and hasn’t considered that some of us are buying replacements.

    For a while, I considered using a kitchen knife, although I could already imagine having to explain that to somebody at A&E. “I was trying to open some scissors” would need a bit of context before they wrote it down on their sheets. Nevertheless, I gave the packaging a good stab and poke with my favourite kitchen knife. (Yes, I know it sounds particularly pathetic to have a ‘favourite kitchen knife’, but if, like me, you do a fair bit of cooking, you’ll understand my favourite knife situation.)

    Eventually, after rummaging further into the drawer, I found an old pair we’d stopped using because they barely cut anything and the hinge bit had gone all loose and wonky. I’d evidently kept them in case we ever needed to give a piece of paper a raggedy edge. They did, however, get under a corner of the packet, and with a fair amount of effort I managed to cut my way round. The plastic became much sharper than anything I’d intended to buy, so getting the scissors out involved handling the remains quite carefully. I’d gone to all this trouble and was rather keen to finish with the same number of fingers.

    Once released, the new scissors were excellent. I tried them on a bit of paper and they cut beautifully, which made it all the more annoying that they’d been sitting there perfectly capable of helping with this task had they not been held prisoner in the blister pack.

    I’ve put them in the drawer now and asked everyone to leave them there. I’ll place good money on them disappearing wihtin a week.

    Packaged Westcott premium scissors with orange ergonomic handles
    No i didn’t take a picture of scissors in the shop – this is AI. Also not an advert for Westcott scissors, i don’t even know who they are.

  • QR Codes on a packet of biscuits

    I thought eating them was the full experience

    I’ve been looking at it while the kettle boils, trying to imagine what might be at the other end. More information about the biscuits, presumably, although the packet has already told me what’s in them, who made them and how many I can eat before I have to start being dishonest with myself and hiding the evidence before the kids come home.

    I’m not sure what else I need to know.

    They’re biscuits. I know what to do. Nobody has ever handed me a custard cream and watched me turn it over in bewilderment, hoping there might be a short instructional video. Yet here we are, I’m being invited to take our relationship with the packet online.

    Perhaps there’s a competition. That would at least explain it. I can understand being asked to do something for the chance to win a holiday, although I’d prefer it if buying the biscuits counted as sufficient effort on my part. I’ve supported the business. I’m getting crumbs on my jumper. Surely that ought to put me in the draw.

    What I find harder to understand is the assumption that I want to become more involved. This seems to happen with almost everything I buy now. Somewhere between standing in Morrison’s or Tesco, choosing a product and putting the packaging in the recycling, I’m invited to join a community. It’s very kind, but I already have people to talk to. Some of them are in WhatsApp groups, where they’re currently taking seventy-three messages to decide whether half past six would suit everyone.

    I’m not sure I have room for the biscuit people as well.

    There might be recipes behind the code. I appreciate the thought, although my main biscuit recipe involves opening the packet carefully enough that I can fold the end over afterwards and shove it back in the cupboard so it doesn’t look like the packet has been opened. On an ambitious day or if I’m feeling posh, I might put them on a plate.

    Of course, nobody is making me scan it. I can leave the code alone and get on with my tea, which is what I generally do. There are useful reasons for QR codes, too. If I’m trying to put something together I’ve bought from Ikea and a diagram will stop me attaching the legs upside down, I’ll happily point my phone at it. It’s the sheer number of invitations that gets me. Every ordinary little purchase seems to offer further reading, a survey or an opportunity to tell someone how I felt about it. I’m beginning to think that buying the thing is merely the introductory stage. The real work starts when you get it home.

    Sometimes I don’t have feedback. Sometimes it was a perfectly satisfactory biscuit and I’d like us both to be allowed to move on.

    There’s something lovely about a cup of tea precisely because so little is required. You sit down for a few minutes, perhaps with someone whose company you enjoy, perhaps in the blessed absence of anyone asking you anything. The phone can stay where you left it or in my case, lost it.

    That’s where mine is staying this morning. The kettle’s boiled, and I’ve already spent longer thinking about the packet than the manufacturer could reasonably have hoped.

    If there’s something wonderful behind that little square, I shall have to miss it.

    The custard creams are very good from this side. Yum.