There are times when I do wish for the comforts of my old cave. In
my new cave there are too many new bits. One thing, called e-mail,
is a dead-set worry. The fact that it sits somewhere within a magic
box called a computer makes it even more worrying. Now, I know the
computer has made us all so much more efficient. I have even heard
that, since being found in Kent, this magic box – filled with intelligence-led
policing – is behind saving the known world from crime.
Such things are beyond me.
But these box-like things on desks constantly confront me. Now, on
my travels, I am bemused by the social status of these boxes. It appears
to me that the size of the box of magic, and the thing that shows
the pictures, are directly related to silver things on some shoulders,
or what floor you happen to work on. But, even so, my magic box continues
to have new things added to it. One of those things is the magic e-mail.
The kind people at the help desk have become used to my call for
help, as I lose things to the ether of cyberspace. They wait patiently
as I plod my way through their instructions with my constant: “Where
is that on the screen?” or “Is that a double left mouse click, or
a single right click with a scroll and half twist?”
Despite my best efforts, the spectre of the e-mail keeps returning.
It is a depressing and euphoric experience. Depressing because I turn
the machine on after a couple of days’ absence and my cave is full
with as many as 20 new e-mails. Horror! How can I cope with all this?!
Then, the dread turns to elation as I go through them and all but
one has any work attached to it. The others are all generic flotsam
from OCPE, or the like. Then I feel unneeded. Why doesn’t anyone send
me real e-mails? The darkness falls. So my love-hate relationship
with the magic desk box continues. People keep telling me that all
sorts of other magic can be made with it, but I usually manage to
suppress any desire to learn more.
It has struck me how, despite my fear of the magic box, it becomes
like a magnet, daring me to write things – that I would probably wish
I had left unwritten – to all sorts of people.
The e-mail system is too immediate. I hate it when I realize I have
e-mailed before thinking. When I put my foot in my mouth over the
phone, I can usually get it out by some swift and clever repartee.
But, with e-mails, it is not only gone but also sitting in the file
and under someone else’s control. And, of course, it sits there forever,
waiting to come back at me when I least expect it.
In other moments of delusion, I think I have it worked out. I send
the e-mail and keep the appointment only to find out the other party
never received it. It floats in the ether for hours, before landing
on the magic box an hour after the event was to happen.
Thank goodness I have worked out how to leave an “I-am-on-holidays”
message on the box. I came back from leave recently and forgot the
message. So I not only had a number of original messages requesting
me to do something, but also the second and third follow-ups of abuse
for not doing what I was asked to do.
Luckily, e-mails are a bit like phone message systems. When I have
been lazy or forgotten to do something, I am able to say: “Didn’t
you get my message/e-mail? Bloody technology!” The system is conveniently
blamed. Of course, the other person knows I didn’t send the message,
but is thankfully too polite to tell me.
There should be some new proverbs about e-mails and magic boxes,
such as:
- Read before you e-mail.
- All e-mails and no talk makes for a dull boss.
- Don’t put the e-mail before the thought.
- Don’t e-mail today that which may be pondered until tomorrow.
E-mails? A boon for the task-centred, control-oriented technophobe,
who doesn’t have the time to talk to people, but altogether too scary
for an upwardly-mobile, ageing Luddite.
I had better sign off – I have just realized you all know my e-mail
address.
