I suppose it’s par for the course at this busy time of year that things should go astray. You know how it is – you put something down, turn around to look for something else and when you go back for the first thing, it’s not there.
In our house, however, things disappear all year round, busy times or not.
When we had children living at home we used to blame the poltergeist. That excuse began to lose its potency as each child in turn left the teenage years behind and moved out of the family home, later to form their own sprite-attracting units. We have young animals – maybe they attract mischievous fairies. Actually, I think they may be the boggarts – at least they display certain boggartly characteristics. Socks mysteriously disappear to be discovered at some future point in a dog basket or a flower pot or under a mat or in the garden. The same fate befalls gloves, shoes, bags, chocolate cake . . .
However, I really think I cannot blame a hobgoblin for the loss of my cursor. I suppose it could be gremlins, the poltergeists of the personal computer. Gremlins and computers have a symbiotic relationship much like mistletoe and trees. The case of the cursor is very irritating, though; - one minute it’s there, the next it’s gone. Hunt as carefully as I might, I cannot discern its presence anywhere on my screen and so, frustrated, I close the lid of my laptop, reopen it and voilà, it reappears as if by magic.
The problem has been compounded and modified recently by the addition of a second screen. Mounted on a bracket, it can be swung out from the wall to give a larger, brighter display, ideal for editing photographs or viewing details, or researching several things at once. Now the cursor is plain to view on the bright screen, winking malevolently at me as I struggle to move it back to my laptop. The touch pad grows hot under my frantic fingers as I stroke it repeatedly, despite multiple blisters and friction burns. In desperation I unplug the additional display and the impish cursor leaps back into place. Restoring the second screen to continue my editing, or research or whatever foolhardy pursuit I have embarked upon, and lo and behold, the cursor has vaulted off my laptop once more.
So here I sit, like a manic organ grinder, opening and closing my laptop a hundred times an hour and unplugging and plugging in my alternative display, while my cursor plays hide and seek with me. I swear I can hear the tinkling laughter of a naughty fairy. I shan’t be clapping for Tinker Bell this year!