‘Someone has unplugged my computer,” I tell my wife. “And now it won’t turn on when I turn it on.”
“That shouldn’t happen just from unplugging it, should it?” she says. She is missing the point, which is that someone has unplugged my computer.
“It starts to turn on, but then it just shuts itself down,” I say.
“Has that ever happened before?” she says.
“No,” I say. “Because I’ve never turned my computer off before.”
I wake up the oldest one, who has just returned home from university.
“My computer is broken,” I say. “Please make it work.”
A few minutes later he comes into my office, hair on end. After a couple of tries he manages to start the computer in recovery mode, and scan the disk. The disk must be repaired, the computer says, but the disk cannot be repaired.
“Now what?” I say.
“Dunno,” says the oldest. When he leaves I contact the online support team. They tell me I have a hardware problem.
The next morning my wife finds me in the kitchen, staring into space.
“Did you make an appointment to get your computer looked at?” she says.
“In a week,” I say.
“A week?” she says. “Why aren’t you panicking more?”
“Because whatever, who cares,” I say. The last time my computer melted down, so did I. The panic lasted for days, and alienated my loved ones. When I bought this computer, I promised myself I would never care again. And that I would back stuff up. But I didn’t do either.
“Well, you seem weirdly calm,” my wife says. In truth, I am almost catatonic with not caring.
That afternoon I go up to my office to stare at the black screen. I turn the computer on, and watch as it turns itself off. I contact the online support team again. A voice tells me I am through to Connor. After a few minutes of pressing keys at Connor’s behest, he suggests it might be possible to reinstate my computer’s operating system on an external hard drive and then surreptitiously retrieve all my data, or something.
“OK, Connor,” I say. Connor tells me what to click on, and I obey. I feel like an astronaut being guided back to Earth. Eventually we reach a stage where the computer must spend half an hour downloading a version of the operating system. Connor issues me with complex post-download instructions, and bids me goodbye.
I go downstairs, make coffee, and stare out the window. My wife comes into the kitchen.
“Busy day?” she says.
“I’m fixing my computer,” I say.
By the time I get back upstairs the computer is restarting itself. There was nothing about this outcome in the post-download briefing. I press a specified combination of keys, first tentatively, then very hard. The computer carries on. I shriek for the middle one.
“Whuh?” he says, leaning through the door.
“It’s wiped itself clean!” I say. “Does this mean I’ve lost everything?”
“Dunno, probably,” he says.
“It’s asking what language I speak!” I say. “It doesn’t even know me!”
“OK bye,” he says.
I close my eyes for a long time. Then I pick up my phone. A minute later, I am through to Sandro.
“It’s all gone,” I say. “That much, I’m resigned to.”
“Can you see the external drive anywhere on the drop down menu?” says Sandro.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t care,” I say.
“Tim,” says Sandro. “I am a senior adviser here at technical support, and I’m going to get you through this.” In my current state I find this strangely moving.
“OK, Sandro,” I say quietly. “Let’s go.”
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