Blonde's Eye View: A printer's staple diet

Mr Blonde is busy with his own work. When we do meet, over a late night bowl of cereal in front of Sky Plus-ed Masterchef, conversation is limited to grunts.

For most of the time it's just me and my Canon. To quote Lady Gaga, it's a bad rah rah ah ah ah romance. Even the printer knows it. In fact it makes a rah rah ah ah ah noise quite regularly.

It's trying to communicate that we're on the rocks. We're one empty cartridge away from counselling.

I have a history of dysfunctional relationships with printers. I've knocked off two in the last year. I'd like to blame my prodigious output, the thousands of well crafted words I make it spew out, but I murdered the first by dropping staples in it.

It was an accident, I swear. The printer in question didn't go down without a fight.

It printed pages blank, apart from perfect reproductions of staples for days. Like reams of stationery hieroglyphics.

I haven't been able to look at a stapler in the same way since.

In printer years my current machine is a teenager. Like a hormonally ravaged sensitive youth, it knows when I'm under pressure and starts to act up.

It thinks it's not fair. I think it's not fair. Someone joked they'd seen my printer on the common drinking cider and smoking. I wouldn't be surprised. It's a delinquent contraption.

Excuse me while I try to coax it out of bed, it's gone lunchtime and I need to get this copy printed.

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