I had to buy a new computer. For some, that sentence might prompt a sort of internal shrivelling as they brace themselves to be bombarded with details about processor speeds and RAM size. Others might be dying to know, or even have strong opinions on the subject.
I’ll avoid all that, other than to tell you that I had to buy a new one because the old one couldn’t update from Windows 10 to Windows 11. The reasons why are far too dull to go into, though I do feel compelled to defend my old computer. It wasn’t rubbish and I was perfectly happy with it. It was more a case of technological bad luck. Like being born allergic to wine.
The Windows people had been sending me “alerts” – a word seemingly chosen to be deliberately alarming – that the supports for Windows 10 would stop in October, soon after exposing my computer to the possibility of malfunction and, more darkly, security intrusions. I’d wake up one morning and find that I’d have to pay a bitcoin ransom just to be able to log on to the Met Éireann website again.
You may be one of those people who knows stuff. Like the fact that there were alternatives to paying out for a new desktop box that looks pretty similar to the old desktop box. And if you are, and wish to tell me about it, please don‘t. Our world is full of divisions, and one of them is between people who like talking about this kind of thing, and those who don‘t.
I could see she had to summon inhuman amounts of willpower to stop her eyes from rolling back in her head
An integral part of having a properly functioning long-term relationship is the permission to be boring with each other, and to talk, at least part of the time, about boring things. Myself and Herself will discuss Daughter Number Four’s schedule, what we need for the weekly shop, and the problem of getting a secure supply of Ace bleach. It was during such a chat that I told her about my computer changeover; or more precisely, all the palaver involved in moving all the files and programmes from one box to another.
Even though it was our Boring Safe Space, I could see she had to summon inhuman amounts of willpower to stop her eyes from rolling back in her head. And I didn’t blame her. Because she hears computer-related talk every day at work. Many of us do.
In my home office, there’s the computer, but also a 70-year-old Royal typewriter that, back in the stone age, I would use to write articles. But I would never have dreamed to write an article about the typewriter. As far as I recall, there were not magazines with titles like TypewriterMag; nor were there people having fevered discussions about the best models and how to operate them. The typewriter was regarded as a tool.
The computer, and all the systems it connects to, is also a tool. Admittedly, it’s a gazillion times handier than all the things it has replaced, but it’s still a tool. Yet it is fetishised, having an inordinate influence on our work and our lives. It barges in between the worker and whatever it is they are trying to produce, in a way other tools don‘t.
A wrench won’t influence how a plumber fixes your leaky toilet. But if you work in any sort of office-based job, a certain portion of your day will be devoted to concentrating on or talking about the primary tool you use: the computer. Teams or Zoom or figuring out how to do something on a spreadsheet.
This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The computer is fierce handy. Yet there is something slightly creepy about the fact that the tools on our computer, owned by huge corporations, influence how we work, how we communicate and in subtle ways, how we think. You’d wonder who we are actually working for.
