3 May 2007: A light you don't have to switch on
I'm always willing to give a new innovation a try. Excluding, to some extent, laptop computers, which I work with and after a point can't stand the sight of. About two weeks ago I took a trip to Brent Cross shopping centre in search of some replacement bedside lamps.
The reason for the trip was a mild case of false economy. Not the serious sort, where you get yourself an old banger and it keeps breaking down on you (no reference to any person, living or otherwise). I should know, my first five or six cars were wrecks I purchased to save myself a few bob, then found myself a) walking home from a lot of places and b) spending the money I'd 'saved' in the first place.
Engraved in my otherwise selective memory are at least two pictures of me replacing the front brakes on my Morris Minor, in the snow, on Christmas Eve, on my way to some family event I'd agreed to turn up to. The sequel to this second bit of economy -maintaining my own vehicle - was where, having taken the wheel apart and removed the worn brake pads, I am totally unable to fit the new ones and, in a sweat hot enough to melt the snow for several metres, start the process of collaring someone who knows how to fix cars.
Somewhere in Twickenham there was a guy who used to sell car parts in his small but friendly shop, and he was the guy we used to ask to help out with this sort of thing. I say 'we' because half of Twickenham seemed to converge on his little place to test his formidable knowledge of which parts best fitted any of several marks and models of ageing motor cars.
He was basically a nice guy, but his irrascible nature did let him down at times. The more people came to see him and ask his advice, the more irrascible he seemed to get.
"Talk to me, TALK TO ME!!!" he'd shout, but you had the feeling it was a bark of despair, really. He had to shout to be heard above the din of customers trying to milk his knowledge of cars.
He was the guy who always helped me out on these rather stressed occasions, and I'll always be in his debt, largely because I never had much to pay him with.
Anyway, on this occasion all I was after was a light fitting, and my car is running nicely thank you. The false economy in question was non buying my bedside lamps from John Lewis, but instead going to places like Ikea to 'save a few bob' on something made in a city-sized factory in China for about 1.5 pence. I was drawn to a fascinating innovation displayed in the lighting department of John Lewis. This was a light that responded to the faintest touch of your hand by turning itself on. It didn't have a switch, in the conventional sense, at all. It turned itself on in three levels of intensity, one for each touch. Isn't technology marvellous? I decided to pay the extra £10 and the hell with it, I took two.
When I got it home and installed them the misses and I were both delighted. What a novelty! No more scrambing around in the dark looking for the switch, we just had to swipe with our arms vaguely in the right direction and hope we didn't knock the whole thing over. Magic!
Now here's the irony. It's very Zen, very Ying-Yang. Everything contains its opposite, within.
The best thing about this lamp was its silent, magic switch. However, the worse thing about it was also its silent, magic switch. So, like a scene from some weak horror movie, the bedside light appears to turn itself on in the middle of the night, when my arm accidentally reaches a foot or so to the side. The wife gets a little grouchy, understandably. So, on impulse, I reach out and touch the lamp to make it turn off again. But it isn't programmed to do that. Instead, it turns onto intensity number two, and the wife gets grouchy again.
Now I know I am completely stuck. There is nothing for it but to get through the awful cycle as quickly as possible. I touch the lamp again and - sure enough - it goes up to full intensity, giving the distinct impression that I really don't care at all and only think about myself. In a split second the lamp is back in the off position, and I begin a slow character-redemption process, while programming myself not to move my arms sideways in my sleep.
It's an example of how technology can go dreadfully wrong, I think. But I still rather like it. I look at it and think how lucky I am it isn't a computer.
The reason for the trip was a mild case of false economy. Not the serious sort, where you get yourself an old banger and it keeps breaking down on you (no reference to any person, living or otherwise). I should know, my first five or six cars were wrecks I purchased to save myself a few bob, then found myself a) walking home from a lot of places and b) spending the money I'd 'saved' in the first place.
Engraved in my otherwise selective memory are at least two pictures of me replacing the front brakes on my Morris Minor, in the snow, on Christmas Eve, on my way to some family event I'd agreed to turn up to. The sequel to this second bit of economy -maintaining my own vehicle - was where, having taken the wheel apart and removed the worn brake pads, I am totally unable to fit the new ones and, in a sweat hot enough to melt the snow for several metres, start the process of collaring someone who knows how to fix cars.
Somewhere in Twickenham there was a guy who used to sell car parts in his small but friendly shop, and he was the guy we used to ask to help out with this sort of thing. I say 'we' because half of Twickenham seemed to converge on his little place to test his formidable knowledge of which parts best fitted any of several marks and models of ageing motor cars.
He was basically a nice guy, but his irrascible nature did let him down at times. The more people came to see him and ask his advice, the more irrascible he seemed to get.
"Talk to me, TALK TO ME!!!" he'd shout, but you had the feeling it was a bark of despair, really. He had to shout to be heard above the din of customers trying to milk his knowledge of cars.
He was the guy who always helped me out on these rather stressed occasions, and I'll always be in his debt, largely because I never had much to pay him with.
Anyway, on this occasion all I was after was a light fitting, and my car is running nicely thank you. The false economy in question was non buying my bedside lamps from John Lewis, but instead going to places like Ikea to 'save a few bob' on something made in a city-sized factory in China for about 1.5 pence. I was drawn to a fascinating innovation displayed in the lighting department of John Lewis. This was a light that responded to the faintest touch of your hand by turning itself on. It didn't have a switch, in the conventional sense, at all. It turned itself on in three levels of intensity, one for each touch. Isn't technology marvellous? I decided to pay the extra £10 and the hell with it, I took two.
When I got it home and installed them the misses and I were both delighted. What a novelty! No more scrambing around in the dark looking for the switch, we just had to swipe with our arms vaguely in the right direction and hope we didn't knock the whole thing over. Magic!
Now here's the irony. It's very Zen, very Ying-Yang. Everything contains its opposite, within.
The best thing about this lamp was its silent, magic switch. However, the worse thing about it was also its silent, magic switch. So, like a scene from some weak horror movie, the bedside light appears to turn itself on in the middle of the night, when my arm accidentally reaches a foot or so to the side. The wife gets a little grouchy, understandably. So, on impulse, I reach out and touch the lamp to make it turn off again. But it isn't programmed to do that. Instead, it turns onto intensity number two, and the wife gets grouchy again.
Now I know I am completely stuck. There is nothing for it but to get through the awful cycle as quickly as possible. I touch the lamp again and - sure enough - it goes up to full intensity, giving the distinct impression that I really don't care at all and only think about myself. In a split second the lamp is back in the off position, and I begin a slow character-redemption process, while programming myself not to move my arms sideways in my sleep.
It's an example of how technology can go dreadfully wrong, I think. But I still rather like it. I look at it and think how lucky I am it isn't a computer.
Labels: switch free lights
posted by Unknown at 9:09 pm
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