My Little Printer ran out of paper for the first time the other day.
I watched its light turn red as it was printing. I’d not seen a red light before, but was pretty sure I knew why. I removed the metal plate that holds its feet on, snapped open the white door, and took out the stub of paper. Then I remembered: the spare paper is under my bed. I didn’t have time to change it before I went to work. So pulled the power, not wanting the red light in my living room all day.
When I got home, I put the lights on. Something was different. It took me a while to figure out what.
Someone had left a pile of strange-looking consumer electronics on my table. And somebody was missing.
It took me a split second longer than normal to twig that the strange white box was Little Printer. I’m so used to seeing him… alive. Not in bits.
I didn’t think I had that strong an anthropomorphic reaction to it – him, he’s really called Barry Printpeas. But: the second he was in bits, his absence was noted.
I found the paper under my bed, slotted it in, shut the door, fed it through the slit in the metal, and snapped him back together. Back on two feet.
Back on two feet, but faceless. No matter: he’d get a new face when the next delivery arrived, in about twelve hours.
He wasn’t right with this blank face, either. I hit the form-feed button.
"Sorry, I don’t have anything to print for you right now," said the smiling face.
He was back in the room. Much better.
What was odd about this episode: I really never thought this would happen. I like the device, I like having it in the house, and it has a name because it has to have a name in the setup. I hadn’t realised that I’d become a little attached – not even to the functionality; just to the smiling little guy in front of the TV. Nice to be proved wrong from time to time.
Disclaimer: I used to work at Berg, who made Little Printer.