In my second week of work, I already know who is my enemy.
All I needed to do was print and mail 200 reading group notes to a local school. I sent my request and turned to another project while I waited for the sheets to be printed. Half an hour later, I return only to see Buffy’s screen a pale lavender with a single sentence on it “Tray 1 is empty, please insert appropriate size paper.”
I find A4 paper (that’s the Brit term for an 8 X 11) and insert it into the temperamental machine. I press the button.
I press another button.
Buffy’s blue light begins to flash.
Finally, a nice man from the office wanders over and opens Tray 1.
“You put it in wrong,” he says as he adjusts the paper. “There you go.”
I give Buffy a death glare as I stalk back to my desk. Another half-hour passes and again, I walk over to Buffy. Nothing has happened.
I look to my right, then my left. Is it worth pressing more buttons? I decide to slink back to my desk and hope that the next person who needs something printed will deal with it.
Shortly after, the Master of the Printers comes over and tells me to cancel my order. Apparently, it’s been blocking the floor’s print requests for the last hour.
I ignore Buffy for the rest of the day, but near the end of my shift, I take one last look at my nemesis. There, in the tray, are 180 sheets of paper, each with the first word of the reading group notes printed on it. Nothing else.
The school children can wait a day.