A Blink of the Screen

didn’t get a kiss.
    ‘Fancy.’
    Someone spilled some peanuts on my keyboard. That was something, I suppose. And then they went home and left me here, working over Christmas.
    ‘Yes, it always seemed unfair to me, too. But look, computers can’t have feelings,’ said Father Christmas. ‘That’s just silly.’
    Like one fat man climbing down millions of chimneys in one night?
    Father Christmas looked a bit guilty. ‘You’ve got a point there,’ he said. He looked at the list again. ‘But I can’t give you all this stuff,’ he added. ‘I don’t even know what a terabyte is.’
    What do most of your customers ask for, then?
    Father Christmas looked sadly at his sack. ‘Computers,’ he said. ‘Mobile phones. Robot animals. Plastic wizards. And other sorts of roboty things that look like American footballers who’ve been punched through a Volkswagen. Things that go beep and need batteries,’ he added sourly. ‘Not the kind of things I used to bring. It used to be dolls and train sets.’
    Train sets?
    ‘Don’t you know? I thought computers were supposed to know everything.’
    Only about wages.
    Father Christmas rummaged around in his sack. ‘I always carry one or two,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’
    It was now four in the morning. Rails wound around the office. Fifteen engines were speeding along under the desks. Father Christmas was on his knees, building a house of wooden bricks. He hadn’t had this much fun since 1894.
    Toys surrounded the computer’s casing. It was all the stuff which Christmas cards show in the top of Father Christmas’s sack, and which is never asked for. None of them used batteries. Mostly they ran on imagination.
    ‘And you’re sure you don’t want any zappo whizzo things?’ he said, happily.
    No.
    ‘Well done.’ The computer beeped.
    But they won’t let me keep any of this
, it typed.
It’ll all be taken away (sob).
    Father Christmas patted it helpfully on the casing.
    ‘There must be something they’ll let you keep,’ he said. ‘I must have something. It’s cheered me up, you know, finding someone who doesn’t have any doubts.’ He thought for a bit. ‘How old are you?’
    I was powered up on January 5th, 2000, at 9:25 and 16 seconds.
    Father Christmas’s lips moved as he worked it out.
    ‘That means you’re not two years old!’ he said. ‘Oh, well, that’s much easier. I’ve always got something in my sack for a two-year-old who believes in Father Christmas.’
    It was a month later. All the decorations had long ago come down, because goodwill goes out of season quite fast.
    The computer repairman, who was generally described on the warranty paperwork as ‘one of our team of highly experienced engineers’, twiddled nervously with his tie. He’d pressed hard on anything loose, replaced a couple of boards and had conscientiously hoovered the insides. What more could a man do?
    ‘Our machine’s fine,’ he said. ‘It must be your software. What happens, exactly?’
    The office manager sighed. ‘When we came in after Christmas we found someone had put a fluffy toy on top of the computer. Well, funny jokes and all that, but we couldn’t leave it there, could we? It’s just that every time we take it off, the computer beeps at us and shuts down.’
    The engineer shrugged. ‘Well, there’s nothing I can do,’ he said. ‘You’ll just have to put the teddy bear back.’

SIR JOSHUA EASEMENT: A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

    W RITTEN FOR
I MAGINED L IVES
, N ATIONAL P ORTRAIT G ALLERY , L ONDON , J ANUARY 2010
    A year or two ago the National Portrait Gallery asked a number of authors to write a very, very brief biography of one of the Elizabethan grandees whose faces were on display in the gallery though, alas, nobody could be found who knew who they were. I took it as seriously as I suspect they wanted
.
    Sir Joshua Easement, of Easement Manor, Shrewsbury was, in his own estimation at least, one of the last of the old Elizabethan seadogs. An ambition that was somewhat thwarted by his total lack of a grasp of the principles of navigation. Documents in the National Maritime Museum reveal that Sir Joshua’s navigational method mainly consisted of variations on the theme of bumping into things, and this was exacerbated by his absolute blindness to the difference between port and starboard. It was a joke among those seafarers who were lucky enough to have sailed with him and survived, that this was because he had never drunk starboard, but had drunk