For one evening anyway:
R. has to do some playcentre work, and I have to do some work work: she with the iBook on wireless and I with my little Dell Latitude 410 (it’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be) hooked up via a VPN through to the corporate LAN.
We’re sitting at the kitchen table in a companionable silence, clicking and tapping away on our respective machines.
I hear a “woosh” as R. sends an email. “Could you print that out for me please”, she asks.
“Sure”, I say. The email arrives in my inbox; I open and read the attachment and hit the print button.
In a darkened floor of an office block downtown, kilometres from here, a printer whirrs into life and spits out two pieces of paper, ready for me to pick up when I arrive at work in the morning.