Monday, 4 January 2010

Computer junkies 2

Dear Tiger,

This house has fallen deathly quiet, and now we know for sure that Shark has taken possession of her very own computer.

You know it too, because you are a changed character.

For a long while, you, Shark and Squirrel have shared one computer. This has taxed us all. Although we developed imagination in your time-share, nothing was satisfactory. The clock system didn't work, neither the egg-timer, nor the log book, nor the oranges, nor the unicorns, nor quite frankly, anything. The only times sharing has worked has been a sudden, unpredictable coincidence of interests, which has allied you, one body, three heads, clustered around the screen. Then woe betide a mummy or a daddy come to tell you all it might be time for bed.

Yet you are now released from the necessity to share. While daddy goes off to sort out Squirrel's computer, you have the front room computer all to yourself. You no longer jealously lean over the keyboard, defensively grip the monitor, nor hang onto the graphics tablet like this is coming with you to the grave, so just try removing it from your determined grasp.

You are right. Corel Draw is all yours. You know your way about this software blindfold, although of course that is not your preferred drawing approach.

And while I am glad you can now begin your career in illustration in earnest, your sole charge of the computer worries me, a little.

I know that when you work, you become so focused on what you are doing, that hours may pass and they are but a second to you. If I call you after two hours, you never hear me. Give it another fifty minutes and I become an irritating buzz somewhere in the house, despite my amplification next to you via a trombone, megaphone and platform tannoy system.

It is this streak you have: the teenage boy whose light bulb moment is to use a wastepaper basket as a commode bucket under the desk because he is destroying zombie flesh eaters and getting his virtual hands on the girl with the big boobs and forget the planet because look at the size of those boobs.

This total focus on a task, and complete dedication to a purpose, is in your nature. To this point, it has been thwarted by the presence of your sisters who declare it is my turn.

With that imperative removed, I may well wish it was back again, because at some point as I am setting up the cannon to deliver the BOOM in the hope I catch your attention, I will then consider the scenarios and think that breaking up a fight over whose turn it is was probably preferable to emptying the wastepaper basket.

4 comments:

Heather said...

at the very least i'd throw the wicker waste basket away and get a metal or plastic one.

MadameSmokinGun said...

When you do devise a reasonably humane way of prising Tiger off the computer please let me know.

We very often have the screeching 2 or 3 or 4 -headed beast thing here but it is usually just one little cyber-punk game addict that I have to remove with a red-hot spatula.

His eyes are the size of beachballs wobbling about in his little ghosty fiz while I'm trying to staple him into his bed - zizzing and beeping and twitching.........

No parental control here at all. Totally vanquished. Except for the power to not have a wastepaper basket at all - anywhere in the house. We just have floor - somewhere under all the rubbish. And I'm not picking that up now.

sharon said...

I used to say '5 minutes and I'm pulling the plug!' Mostly worked within 10 mins allowing shutdown time. When we first went online all those years ago I frequently used to remove the relevant cord connecting him to the internet so that coursework was written. But I was/am probably far more evil than you could ever be.

PS Does Squirrel not mind the lack of unrestricted access to a computer?

Maire said...

My mind was with Heather's lol.