“Haze!”
     “What?”
     “Where are you?”
     “In the kitchen.”
     “It’s disappeared again.”
     “What’s disappeared again?”
     “The pointy, mousy thing.”
     Even from the kitchen, I heard her groan. “Well I’ve told you what to do.”
     “I’ve done that, but it’s not come back.”
     “You’re too enthusiastic with your movements. Move the mouse slowly in the direction you want to move the cursor.”
     “Remind me again what the cursor is.”
     “The pointy, mousy thing.”
     I thought about her advice for a second, it didn’t make sense. “But I don’t know which direction I want it to move,” I explained.
     “Why not?”
     “Because I don’t know where it is, I’ve already told you that. Can you come and help?”
     Again, there was a groan, then a deep sigh. “I’m peeling potatoes.”
     “Please, it’ll only take a minute.”
     I heard the noise of the potato peeler dropping onto the kitchen worktop. Haze appeared at the door, marched briskly towards me, grabbed the mouse, moved it slightly, and the pointy, mousy thing reappeared as if by magic. “Explain it to me again,” I said.
     “It’s simple; you move the mouse too much.”
     “I don’t, look.” I touched the mouse gently and the pointy, mousy thing disappeared from view. “Oh, bloody hell,” I moaned.
     “I’ll show you once more,” Haze snapped. She placed her hand on mine and placed mine on the mouse. She moved and the pointy, mousy thing came back. She moved again and it disappeared. She moved again and it returned. “See,” she said, “Now you try.”
     I did, several times. At last I seemed to have mastered the manoeuvre. “Good, isn’t it,” I grinned. Haze returned to her duties.
     “Haze.” There was no reply. “Haze,” I repeated, louder.
     “What!”
     “Where are you?”
     “In the kitchen.”
     “What are you doing?”
     “Tailing sprouts.”
     “I don’t like sprouts.”
     “They’re good for you.”
     I felt it best not to argue the point. “Have you got a minute?”
     “What d’you want?”
     “I’m typing, but nothing’s happening.”
     “That’s an overstatement.”
     “What’s an overstatement?”
     “You, typing.”
     “Why?”
     “You can’t type.”
     “I can type,” I said, indignantly.
     “Six words an hour isn’t typing, it’s poking the keys.”
     “Well nothing’s happening.”
     “Press the alt key.”
     “Why?”
     “You must have pressed it accidentally, press it again and it’ll be okay.”
     I knew perfectly well that I hadn’t. “I didn’t,” I shouted.
     “Try it anyway.”
     I raised my eyebrows and sighed, but tried it anyway. Everything was okay. “Thank you.”
     “Haze.”
     “Oh for goodness sake, what now?”
     “The paperclip with eyes says I seem to be writing a letter and it’s asking if I need any help.”
     “Well are you?”
     “Am I what?”
     “Are you writing a letter?”
     “Yes.”  
     “Well do you?”
     “Well do I what?”
     “Do you need any help?”   
     “No, I don’t think so.”
     “Well ignore it then.”
     I was a little worried. I wondered if the paperclip with eyes had spotted something I was doing wrong. “But I might, I’ve lost my confidence now; I think he might be trying to trick me.”
     “For goodness sake, Roger, try to type your letter, then if you have trouble, take him up on the offer.”
     This seemed a sensible approach. “Okay.”
     “Haze.”
     “Arrghhh!”
     “Sorry?”
     “Nothing.”
     “Are you still in the kitchen?”
     “Yes, scraping carrots.”
     “Can I have extra carrots and no sprouts?”
     “No.”
     “A few extra carrots and not many sprouts?”
     “We’ll see.”
     “Have you got a minute?”
     “No.”
     “It’s important.”
     “What?”
     “There’s a message asking me if I’m sure I want to delete my letter.”
     “Well, do you?”
     “No, it’s taken me all morning and it’s not quite finished yet.”
     “You must have pressed delete by mistake. Just left click ‘no’.”
     I’d been trying to do that for the last ten minutes. “I can’t,” I admitted.
     “Why not?”
     “I’ve lost the pointy, mousy thing again.”