I have this thing about label makers.
Something about those neat, white strips, calmly stating important facts in no-nonsense typeface just speaks to me.
I figure if I were to own a label maker, I would finally become Organised Lady. My household would run like a well-oiled machine. My children would arrive on Book Week Day wearing elaborate hand-sewn costumes. Friends would pop over for a spontaneous catch-up to find me relaxing in an immaculate house, the smell of a delicious, healthy treat wafting out of the (shiny, clean) oven.
I wanted that label maker.
But, I remonstrated with myself, such things really are an expensive extravagance. There really isn’t much I can achieve with a label maker that I can’t also achieve with a permanent marker and a roll of masking tape…
And I almost believed myself.
But then, last week, Mr Knightley casually commented that he’d seen label makers on special at the local stationery emporium. Was that something I could use?
When I had fully recovered my powers of speech, I reassured Mr Knightley, in an abundance of words, rapidly spoken, that I did indeed covet – er, need – such an object.
Oh, just look at it.
I didn’t know it was going to be pink. I know it’s childish, but I love it when things are bright pink. I was thoroughly over-excited by my new acquisition.
But I wasn’t the only one.
It started when Harry took my label maker to a quiet corner, typed out the entire alphabet and then printed several labels to commemorate this achievement.
I admonished Harry, confiscated the label maker and placed it high out of reach.
Harry watched and waited.
The next time I pulled down the label maker, Harry was ready. The first moment my back was turned, Harry absconded with it to further investigate this mechanical wonder. This time, he managed to jam it all up. I firmly resolved, as I extracted scraps of twisted labels with my eyebrow tweezers, to keep the precious contraption out of reach at all times on the top shelf of the pantry, next to the Milo tin.
Which brings us to this morning.
After coaxing a particularly reluctant Annie out of a dirty nappy and into her cot for a sleep, I returned to the kitchen to find Harry covered in Milo. In the moments that followed, I took in the following information:
- A kitchen stool had been pushed into the pantry
- The label maker was now on the bench
- Harry had merrily printed off THE REST OF THE TAPE whilst sitting at the bench eating Milo
Here’s what happened next:
- I started yelling and storming about the house like a demented rhino, firing off abusive texts to my husband.
- Harry burst into tears and then rubbed his tear-stained Milo face all over my top.
- Christopher Robin walked through the floor-Milo and tracked it through the house
- Annie woke up.
I had a read over the warranty, but there’s nothing in it to cover the wanton destruction brought about by insane two-year-old saboteurs…
My one consolation is that Dymo – or, indeed, Milo – might approach me with an endorsement deal for introducing my readers (yes, both of them!) to the wonders of their product.
Perhaps they could pay me in label cartridges?