I don’t why I have always had such difficulties with printers. Maybe writers and the printers we depend upon always have an uneasy relationship. When my old printer died (it was an HP and owed me nothing) I was actually quite excited to get a new one. Well, the one I got on sale at London Drugs proved to be a nightmare. I said on Facebook I would have been happy to chuck the thing off my balcony. But I took it all back to London Drugs and came away with a Lexmark that now seems to be working just fine, so I guess I survived another round of printer wars.
The young lady who looked after me at London Drugs is someone I’ve noticed for a few years now, mostly because of the fact that she smokes a pipe, which you don’t see too often these days, especially a young woman. Turns out she’s an ACAD grad in design, working at LD to pay the bills while she establishes herself as a designer. So I not only got my printer fixed, but I feel like I made a new friend.
Now, back to the play that I was supposed to be writing. This search for a new printer was a good diversion, but time to get back to work . . .
eugene stickland 
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